Later, he’d go home and write poems
barely thinking of the ever-more-likely
knock at the door. ‘Writing poems is
like body surfing’ he’d say. ‘Do you
know this expression? Body surfing? I
picked it up by the Baltic Sea. You have
to ride the wave’

In the bar, this was even later, drinking –
what? Vodka, because it’s transparent?
Guinness because its transparency is
ironic? The expression, ‘He (or she) can
be seen through Guinness’ is one he
never knew, would never hear, even in
prison

You can star in prison and fail in
California, but who cares? Failing in
California was a fantastic dream, like
a bee drowning in Guinness, to
hyperbolise. Because the bee would
drag themselves out of the pool of
whatever alcohol in whatever bar, or
kitchen, they were in and buzz home
while the buzzing was good

A bee fails in a hive, a sparrow cries in
its tree, a poet’s dragged off in the night
whether his jailers like him might be
good, might be bad. What impression
he’ll make on the other inmates is what
keeps him awake, how he’ll be or seem
The effect of his voice, harsh or gentle

Michael Farrell