None Of Our Hearts Are

None Of Our Hearts Are Pure, We Always Have Mixed Motives. Are Self Deceivers, But The Worst Of All Deceits Is To Murmur 'lord, I Am Not Worthy' And, Lying Easy, Turn Your Face To The Wall.

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

Time Was Away And Somewhere Else, There Were Two Glasses And Two Chairs And Two People With One Pulse.

Today I Am So At Home In Dublin, More Than In Any Other City, That I Feel It Has Always Been Familiar To Me. But, As With Belfast It Took Me Years To Penetrate Its Outer Ugliness And Dourness, So With Dublin It Took Me Years To See Through Its Soft Charm To Its Bitter Prickly Kernel - Which I Quite Like Too.

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural. I Peel And Portion A Tangerine And Spit The Pips And Feel The Drunkenness Of Things Being Various.