Poem: Drinking with Boileryard Clarke

Boileryard, you’ve risen above things,
But you’ll never be above
Slipping into the accent of
A tenement Catholic
Who brawls over gruel,

Who wanders over a brick-strewn lot
Where the tobacconist’s burned down.
Where the indigent defeated now
Fuck like choleric bears.

A name like that means
You weren’t fated to greatness
But to rankest survival,
By dint of knuckled guts.

But enough of that.
Shall we alight from safe places,
Have too much absinthe
and insult a colonel?

Who needs a heart
When you’ve got a spleen
With a vena cava?

We’ll promise to bury you
At Druid Ridge, but only if you promise
Not to outlive that snarl.

For your pecker is a grinder’s wheel.
For your balls are a civil war.

But this, Boileryard,
This is a hymn.




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9 Responses to “Poem: Drinking with Boileryard Clarke”

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  1. I Saw This on XM Sirius Radio says:

    NotGraphs has a moral obligation to do a piece on the “migraine induced” crazy announcing of Monday’s Rangers game.
    http://espn.go.com/dallas/mlb/story/_/id/8073671/texas-rangers-dave-barnett-blames-strange-lapse-migraine-headaches

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  2. Aaron55 says:

    A gentleman tobacconist

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  3. dp says:

    “A tenement Catholic/Who brawls over gruel”–all my ancestors.

    We of the current generation of guilt-ridden Papists have switched to brawls over Tostino’s Pizza Rolls, but the ethos remains unbroken.

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  4. Erik Archer says:

    Now there’s a man with drinker’s hair.

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  5. deadhead says:

    That picture looks like a cut away shot from a horror movie.
    (A buxom vixen is running for her life, recoiling with terror. She gasps as her heaving blossom glistens with sweat. She stops and clutches where her pearl necklace would have been, if the insane, maniac killer had not severed her lover’s head, in order to teach her that women should not enjoy carnal pleasure. Her eyes dart as she spins around to investigate what’s behind her – cut to Boileryard Clarke standing there like a man displaced in time.)

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