attending an irish arts

centre evening: sponsored

of course, by powers whiskey.

women and young men with semi-long hair

smoking rollies and sipping white wine.

a display of short films: old songs

and the nudeness of manicured

countryside – desolate. shot trees

out of dirt and of dirty bog

water. and water impacting

to white over granite,

black over rocks at a depth. all songs

and all spoken word poetry read

by young men with voices

like lobster traps talking

from history. we never get away from it.

we don’t even try anymore.

I drink my free whiskey,

watch an hour of five minute shorts.

everything could be an ad

for bord na mona. everything

could be a failte ireland ad. sponsored

by powers whiskey. I say as much

to a friend who says hush:

a director is standing behind me.

it’s culture night in dublin.

I don’t despise it entirely,

but I wish that more artists

did something else too.

the world skulling wine on the street.

looking at prints about sexual violence

made by women on the walls

of public spaces. art about violence

against immigrants made by men

(who don’t talk about sexual violence)

and which everyone nods at in passing.

a group of teenagers next to a mcdonalds

test bottles for fullness and drink them.

they are dressed for the weather,

entertaining and beautifully formed.