"Fringe Warsâ€¦ Same-Sex Affectionsâ€¦ Conclusion"
The last night in Dublin, lyin in the hotel room starin at the stale smoke still clingin to the curtains, Sir Fleming in the midst a some drunk dream or other, folks roarin fuck-words on the street outside, others cursing the wombs what spawned them in dialects I ain't ever gonna understand.
Occasionally, a coherent threat;
"I'll fuck your kidney rotten!"
"And fuck your grampa also, I'll eat the bastard's eyes he sets foot cross the threshold ever again!"
And, oh, yeah;
"By Lorca's balls, I'll cut the ears off a your firstborn for that kinda chat!"
Under the sheets, trousers still on case maybe the duvet flies off in the midst a some nightmare 'bout rabid Alsatians, ain't nothing a fella as cultured as Sir Fleming needs to be greeted with 'pon wakenin.
The dark illuminated by the blue glow of the mobile phone, struggling to explain the fire in the skull to SinĂ©ad, and the countdown at the top right a the screen, you got 100 digits left, fucker, best you make your damn point.
And impossible, it is, cause who can relate anything of the sort wi these kinda rations imposed on the language, so screaming at the phone "Hell's bells, we won the bastard war, we didn't crawl through trenches seethin wi Nazi torment for a hundred bastard digits!"
But no use, and so "My heads on fire, you must help me, I think", it's all I can get away with, least without the aid of six or seven rambling essays loosely connected via the Savage Purple stained-glass chards in the gut.
Making do with the notepad paper flung round the four corners a the mattress, and the pen shakin in the fist;
"Maybe it's better never to know, never to be in these positions, cause an abstract ideal, easy to ignore, but the Savage Purple straight ahead, the eyes like Miles Davis' sax risin out the stew a bass and cymbal 49 and a half seconds into 'Miles Runs The Voodoo Down', there's no science I know of could explain how a man might look away."
Because for a time, earlier in the eve, stood midst a throng a chemically-enhanced emo-fringed erections in the courtyard out back a Eamon Dorans, for a moment that's all I could see, that note tearing through the soundscape, and what it looked like, what it felt like and sounded like was SinĂ©ad sat in the corner of a bar and the faces round about meltin into one inconsequential hiccup in the geometry of Dublin.