Jawbone biscuits, currants and arrowroot, a slough-pump rum-cake, packet of crisps; seedy soppy loll; Howth Head penance, Graveclothes coiled in Guinness, a stone bowled into the rope of the sea. Odysseus and Mall Ox, these are troubled time, troubled indeed. Here I sit trumpeting through my ass, a symphony of flutes, oboes and a coalman’s spinneret, a brash and assuming morning pushing in through my bedroom window, this is how the day begins, Mall Ox and Odysseus, trumpeting ass.
