So many of us gathered that you'd think we were about to levitate the Town Hall. Freaks of every stripe—from navvies ankle-deep in concrete mix, to pensioners, schoolteachers, councilmen, the ecumenical— calling down the mouth of the Crimean war cannon like oracles charming Apollo from the rocks. I'm somewhere near the back—among that sun-bleached portion of a stranger's bad Polaroid; probably drunk, probably pitching memorial arcs of Strongbow down the Arts Centre steps— when, out of nowhere, a Saracen comes squealing through the barricades and our handiwork is scattered all over Kildare St: burnt-out-cars, wash pots, empty kegs, cinder blocks.
The sort of thing I imagine there might've been had I lived to see the eighties; as the unheard of, unseen narrator of an altogether grottier Icarus—wearing my German Army surplus coat & battered Derbys—who can't seem to articulate the insidiousness of failure as sanctioned by the State. I think about this, and of my parents & brothers, press "book selected flights", and I go back home to vote.
James Conor Patterson’s work has appeared in a number of publications including, most recently The Tangerine, The Stinging Fly, New Statesman, The Moth, New Welsh Review and Poetry Ireland Review.