Written King of piss alleys and whiskey stained flats
Ripped the feelin of any feelin
I’m always here, always dreamin of leavin
Learnin the meanin by bein the mean thing the dreaded brute beatin
Beat poetry by a million
Million up, if I knew then, I would reach it
But I didn’t
I’m the baddest beat poet of these streets –
Only beat poet of these streets –
Lonely, encaged, but peaceful my prose
Pink, my penance
A petrified particular
A specified wrong-thinker
A son of poetry of which I am perpendicular
For my sins I am a sinner
Sinner, song-writer
Ballymun birds, those gliders
Sail above blood, above bravado, ‘bove burners, burn-outs, bastards
I’m the bloodiest beat poet of these streets
Smash heads, dance on necks
Write with lead, laced in red
On brown-brick tenements
Ink squeezed, wrung from twisting
Men in wrong place, wrong time
My victims
It was present then
It’s history now
You can ready the boat, dear captain of tin
Read all about it, if you can read the red
I’m the baddest beat poet of these streets
Because I, but I, see the smeary, bloody poetry on these streets
Bad poetry by blunt busters, boy bruisers
Bad within time
If only I could reach it
Leo Grey 