I feel Irish today,
No decent future, maybe just money and a new distillery
The new hotel to fuck my view in Dublin 8 is empty
The enormous student residence is as windy as a Hong Kong typhoon.
And empty like my pockets.
How is it possible to live without depression in Dublin 8?
Rents growing up like young kids
New lovers prefer Inchicore for survival
I saw a couple of new Dubs from Yemen
Laughing in from of a €16 sort-of-pita on Fumbally Lane .
Dog shit is everywhere and landlords now aren’t building
Anymore, they prefer selling the risk to young tenters
Ladies are covering up today like an old bad memory
The weather hit me like the
Cultural page of the Irish Times
And Dalkey economics need to take their fucking Volvos
And visit reality on the North Side and stop talking about Brexit.
Living on an island other than Sicily is hard, especially if your rent looks
Like a Greenwich Village one without the Jazz and Latin vibes
I read a prick note from a fella working on cultural issues in Ireland that creates
Anxiety in me.
How am I supposed to live?
How am I supposed to fuck?
How am I supposed to smile?
We have a fucking bad poet taking care of us,
And a Minogue fan and Murphy destroying the social fabric of Dublin 8
The Irish create the 3.0 Proletarian Profile, they are not concerned
Because money arrives, nothing more
It is sad, like a Dub
Empathy is gone
Love is only there
And Setanta doesn’t fight any longer.