land of the free

my friend picks us up from the airport and drives us to her house among the lofty hills, flying along the narrow snakelike roads like a teenage boy on speed while rolling a cigarette. she dwells with a couple of drummer-hippies high on weed or perhaps mountain air which they plan to sell to American tourists for a fiver per inhale.

we meet a reluctant farmer, hungover and on the lookout for someone to produce a couple of heirs with. sheep have no souls, he tells us, but cows are ok. he owns a large stretch of land, a kingdom of perfection.

kerry is raw beauty, a suitable escape from general post-modern confusion. the kind of place I mention to a London-bound Irishman around 3 AM at a house party expecting to hear ancient tales of banshee sightings and subsequent deaths.

and so I keep returning to the open fields of emerald green that fall cut throat into an endless stretch of turquoise seascape, soft and hazy mountains in the distance, some misty-gone.

fuck the city, I think to myself, the farmer boys are looking for wives.



I tell you a story that happened to me
One day as I went down to Youghal by the sea.
The sun it was bright and the day it was warm. 
Says I, “A quiet pint wouldn’t do me no harm.”
I went in and I called for a bottle of stout.
Says the barman, “I’m sorry, the beer is sold out.
Try whiskey or Paddy, ten years in the wood.”
Says I, “I ‘ll try cider, I hear that it’s good.”

Oh never, oh never, oh never again,
If I live to be hundred or hundred and ten
For I fell to the ground and I couldn’t get up
After drinking a quart of the Johnny Jump Up.