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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
Nobody can see my name on me.My name is insideand all over me, unseenlike other people also keep it.Isn't my name magical?
One was beautiful, silken hair to her waistand dutiful, kept it neatly in place.Please and Thanks were words she’d use.
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
Eyes as wide as continents brim wih the water between.
Seeks a different future. Looks back on what has been.
Mouth seeks another language. Shapes a different air.
I am the evil Slithermonchowchuck,I am afraid of no one (well almost no one).I munch on the marbles of lost lunatics,I nibble on the toes of Tyrannosaurus
The space is a friend.I tell it what hurts.
I tell it why I'm not good.The space is a friend.I tell it the bother I'm in.It won't let me tell lies.