Ghosts of the twentieth century
What do you have in your hands?
Guns from Israel?
Stolen Radios?
Shopping carts of Aluminum I have left for you?

Let me warn you of a danger:
Do not dream, I beg you,
leave your dirty tongue dry-
leave your tongue wheat pasted to the roof of your mouth
be silent

Farmers of America,
Let me invoke images of the Great Depression:
Milk will run on America's back roads,
milk will run again into the gravel.
America, your wheat bins will be overturned
your harvest will be charred

What meat will I eat in my time?
only what is left in the sun to rot
I am but seconds, I am a maggot, a blind intestine
From Larva to Pupa to green blooded Bug,
I will live for a day and no more
time is best measured in seconds,
and I bring with me ten thousands deaths
like mosquito husks drawn to the flame
to collect with the wax below the candle stick

Tractors as big as the great baleen whales,
pyramids of yellow and tires,
devouring the golden sea of wheat and soy
America who owns your great chest and belly?
Name the corporations so I may speculate on futures.

America do not dream of agricultural gods, of fertility.
Do not dream America, do not dream America.
I refuse to dream because even my closed eyes
offer only images of mirrored insurance company towers
reflecting city lights and sky

Do not dream America,
do not let your eyes twitch in sleep.
Vague ghosts of the twentieth century,
Arms laden- doped and contented
what game is broadcast tonight?
what brand of beer will sour your stomach?
what brand of beer will sit in your throat and burn?

Perhaps I can hear a redemptive belch of the proletariat
over the choral hum, the slow songs
from the hymnal pages of Architectural Digest
window treatments, Corian, and brass fixtures
The Holy Family has gathered for Vespers.

Mother, if you sing with this choir of butchers, I cannot indict you
for you have made me a choir boy and a butchers apprentice,
listen to me enumerate the tenderest cuts

Holy Mother, indeed, your home is beyond reproach,
your great enamel basins are washed-
I am blinded by soap, my mouth is slick and stinging with lye.
indeed, your carpets are softer than my bed-
softer than the bed of millions-
I want to sleep on your carpets, millions seek rest upon your carpets.

While you are dreaming of turquoise and emerald
the endless offerings of the Home Shopping Channel,
I am awake in the dark hours of morning
and Mother, your house is infested with field mice,
they eat your crackers and your bread.
I wait until three AM, and the ghosts come
their faces haunt the television, begging compassion,
did you know for only dollars a month I can do so much
feed the starving of Uganda and Brazil,
thirty thousand face that will not cry for milk tomorrow.
surely, bearing the guilt of watching must grant me some reprieve?

Holy Mother, Eden is receding.
I once was a pin cushion for your lies
I will no longer clean your foul gutters or spray down your facade
I will not rehearse romance on your piano
I will not dream of your milk or your rocking chair
I will not dream of you in your absence
I will eat the apple to the core and be done.

I want to take a thousand bodies into my grave.
If I cannot swim in the flesh of dreams
I demand at least kisses in my sleep
another's warm tongue in the dry cavity of my face
deep kisses and no dreams, no tenderness

If I take a lover do not disturb my bed-
leave the stains in my sheets,
leave the grease on my pillow
when passion is gone from my bed
this will remain my only proof that I have had a body.

Already proof is fading,
no soreness in my thighs, no pinching of my shoes is enough
my eyes are burning, my intestines are burning,
my breath is slow and troubled
I need no one to bathe me and I will not bathe myself

America, let us make a contract,
I will not dream if you do not dream
and if I forget myself for a moment
do not call me back too quickly
let me have my few seconds to remain nameless
to escape the tyranny of my own image.

If I lay with naked men,
finished cocks curled like necks of sleeping wood ducks
against the dark hair of their inner thighs
do not speak to me.
If I lay with naked women,
curled hair matted and sticky, blood flush labia pouting
wet across the crease of small buttocks-
do not speak to me.
Is it I who Has broken these necks,
have I made these wounds bleed?

I will pass quickly- let me go
I will be only seconds upon your maps
carry on with commerce,
exchange if you must, do business, trade
just do not ring my phone,
leave me to lay still with my comrades,
we are not organizing, we are not conspiring
We can no longer hope for more than dreamless sleep.

I will not dream if you do not dream,
I assure you, my generation is already tired,
you have turned our semen into venom.
Already today we are tomorrow's ghosts,
might that we could rise to haunt you.
an army powdered with lime
stumbling from the bulldozer trenches
where you will have laid our flesh to rot

Seamus Malone
Summer-Autumn 1994