dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
blank image this is the way home poetry - written and spoken stories and creative writings alternative writings, prose, essays, reportage manifestos, insights, alternative views music mp3 original music eyes to see with movies, flash and animations links - click here to read reviews of our favourite websites click to subscribe to our occasional ezine all about dead drunk dublin info on how to contribute to dead drunk dublin

t h e   t r a i n   k e e p s   p a s s i n g

g r e g o r i o   r a c a d i o

The J train keeps passing constant it never stops that sound is forever at three in the morning already hung over from the night out and the sound rolls by my window I think sometimes maybe those lights are the train making its way into my window fallen off the tracks and sliding down half a block from broadway and through my window and what would the news say...mysterious train slid from its rails and killed a man resting in his cave and the people on the train...a mother with her only child made it this far...from cuba with its clouds and sea to the hot dogs and warm beer of coney...and it all is over because the conductor had been ides and wise chips...and the family of the conductor how many times have they forced an intervention on their father...daddy it is for your own good the little girl cringes...oh you with your after-school specials, your brownies...but it doesn't make a difference he stills storms out of the room just like his father used to after hours of beating and has fallen down the stairs again...but he rushes into that club g strings and hairs and smells of old sweat...years of swinging on the poles and their hands stick every once in awhile...all cold and rough...and they inch down the pole inch...and that man one night with a fistful of dollars and a slight grin from his mouth he invites that woman pack to his green chevy...its so cold and rough...and the mouth keeps saying over and over how they don't understand him and no one understands him...but the woman she once was a girl...legs all bruised and shit...remembers her mother...years of beating and spitting from HER father...but what can she do for him now he left years cold and rough...he grabbed his jacket and that two tone hat that she bought for him...or rather she stole for him...and he knows the combo for her lock...didn't it her father...but that voice comes from the back of her head and rises into her conscious and putters : no woman not all men are your father and not all men want to do you harm...some just want to fuck until they can fuck no more...and what else are you here I am important with my degrees and my cats ...I have a really...I have a point...but that shrink was only appointed to her because she had taken too much...courts had said she had taken too much...and she knew it was time to give back...but what's the harm in taking a little once you have given a little...but what would happen if that train fell off its tracks...I don't think I'd have the strength to deal with all these stories all coming from this cave...and I keep worrying and praying that the train keeps on its many lives...and I just couldn't bear it...



© copyright 2004, gregorio racadio, all rights reserved


to contact the editor, email or use our contact form here
all contents copyright © 2007 all rights reserved - redmoonmedia, publishers - authors rights are protected

site design by redmoonmedia