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GALWAY TRAIN WINDOW GIRL (collaboration with Rachelleundrgnd)


In Coole Park, Yeats pen hangs from bough
Fountains spiral circled words in walled garden
Seen only by repect’ers of language magnitude.

Lilting breeze teases rose petals into curled leafs
Page upon page of love letters never to be written.
Stems arched, bravely keeping beauty afloat.

Through threads of Roisin Dubh hangover
Frayed remnants of London Girl relationship
Held together by barest filament, shivers under
Ireland’s saddest sun, shimmering for burnt out love:
Finally to ignite bodies into pyre of ash.
I shall be glad for the night of prostitutes & drunks.

Walking along dusty path, only twigs for company -
Two hands entwined cause me to wince
Sympathetic smiles stretch out to me;
Can they see something in my eyes?

I remember The Train Window Girl of yesterday
She causes me to stoop and stop:
Little black cloud in a dress boarded at Athlone
Dublin to Galway Express became platform of desire
Sirens of signals, sweat formed across her lipstick
As liquefying glass astride luscious mouth,
Thoughts of her kept me awake in burglars’ hours.

On returning to Galway Bay, decide to return
My hangover to sender in hallows of The Quays,
Streams of chilled alcohol run into River Corrib
A man alone with his thoughts of days of ice.

Casting my net o’er bar dwellers, as a
Whisky-soaked elderly man sings
‘My Way’ to himself, for himself.

Then a low flying bomber drops a H Bomb:
In an alcove, adrift in litany of empty glasses
Sits The Train Window Girl, lost in depths of a novel.


Rote turn of page an attempted distraction
thwarted by letters refusing to cohere.
So much had been riding on that interview.
Gloom floating low over the river echoing the deception.

‘Hopes Dashes: Galway Girl Returns Home Empty-Handed.’
Today’s headline fast-forwards to unmet expectations.
Drowning out the might-have-beens
I again put glass to lip.

Laughter lands as shrapnel from meandering tourists three pints in.
Then downed by projectile from nearby song,
‘...I bit off more than I could chew...’
Insufficient liquor in the whole of Connacht to numb.

Sensing eyes upon me,
I abandon page to catch and hold,
Demure back into book,
slight curve of mouth indicating anything but.

Sad, stubbled man from the train.
Those deep stormy eyes, a welcome distraction.
Gazing downward still,
sandaled foot outs empty chair in invitation.


Hell’s bells & buckets of blood
Eyes of blue pearl shunt me to the chair
Shovelled coals steam bones to mist.
How can an encounter so brief,
(Un)crush butterflies on steel wheels?  
‘Leopold Bloom’ silenced tomb tight.

Cigarette smoke lisps thru hair tendrils.
Voice wounded by alcohol blade, and too
Many late night conversations with myself
Opened by Rosaleen’s soft speech, tender
As ribbons from typewriter of blind poet.

She speaks, biting paroxysms of stalest air
Dreams felled by shotguns, swung from the hip.
Lonesome kayaker paddles against rip tide
Lovers writhe on sun drenched wetness of bank.

In eye blink, my Romany ancestors
Punch drunk me back into their graves.
Hand painted caravans carrying generations
Dusty tracks to destinations marked by stars
Led by horses who wearily read sky as braille.

Idly, under séance of memories, recite words
From my notebook lying restless in suburbia:

'Soar as the Redshank, towards as many suns
As your heart can carefully hold
Remain as the Romany
True to yourself.'

Quietude embraces the sudden chill
Movements of a brittle foetus
Nest in haunting hawthorn.

Embryonic tears birth on cheek bone
Well of amniotic swell mascara’ed
All sufferance, pain cupped in wells of palms
Painted nails cover(t) canvas of all Rosaleen has ever been.

Breeze burrs to spread blouse buttons open
Mountain wind 'Clair de Lune' breathless
Trembles from cleavage to open leg crevice
Salt of her mouth cleanses, neck nape
Applique of all feminine scents.
There will be time in the morning
To reassemble compass point
Right here, right now
The night belongs to the North.


Clutching Joyce in one hand,
a second James takes my side.
Personal Bloomsday adventure unfolding.

His steadfast gaze births rain and sun
as sentiments flow swiftly into chalice ready to receive.
Outpour pacing the quickened beat of my heart
his prose spreads as balm across still fresh crevice.

My hand journeys towards dancing lips
softly tracing back through generations of storytellers.
Fingers re-enacting the wanderlust
of the here and now and of those who had come before.

Tongue’s salve to soul transforms to carnal elixir.
Skins recall old truths while absorbing the new.
Ensuing cries sent direct to the gods--
Poseidon, Eros and Helios in unison— then beyond.

Each placing our respective tatters into that infinite space where
one body ends and the other arches to begin anew.
Broken bits cradled in sacred hold
languorously pulverized as flesh meets flesh
then sent out on the winds.
Gift of fluids and salts and dust for the divinities,
Mooring where neither duty nor suns can be counted.


Genuflect under shadow of sun sunken cathedral
Rosaleen’s eyes slumber under penile head of the dome
Anticipation of what lies ahead, looking at Galway
Gutters through her blue dreamer’s eyes.

Arousal smells of an orange left to flay in mid-day blaze -
Enough juice to satiate most rapacious mouth.

Hands clasped, she plays my knuckle keys
Whale bone organ, seductress of fingertip painted puissance
Sea-skin sprays, spumes o’er her marble mantle below.
Imagination tilts on Atlantic’s hinges
Sweeping drudgery of egg, bacon, scrabble…
Into corners of a London kitchen sink.

Conversation carves runes on her temple wall
Understood by those who linger in libraries, where
Yearning becomes the sixth & seventh senses.

Air-conditioning wheezes
Couple in next room argue
Language of alcohol from pavements
An alphabetic gang of words.

From behind Rosaleen unbuckles me from denim
Clit circles lumbar, vulva turns inside-out
She squeezes and strokes me to cliff edge and back.
Slowly unpeeling clothes to reveal constellation of skin
Freckles align to nipples in quiver of arrows
Falling at her arched body, slitting her quim deeper.

A long finger drenched by her coiled tongue
Finds a home in every black hole of Rosaleen’s universe,
Lips entangle until skin raw & bruised
Drip over jaw bone, slackened by tinges of our taste.

Bouquet of primordial roses thrashed
To decay in a fuck-storm, a settling crepuscule
Of entwined vines creeping around the back of the day.
In dawn drenched fields, Somnus cradles
Woken by bells, tittle-tattle of tourists:
Where her head lay, softly forming creases in pillow
Sits, as butterfly wings, a crumpled note.


Spent, body recovering slowly from the épuise of the night.
Soul marvels at ability to take only flesh for truth.
Head attempts the untangling of legs from soaked sheets from emotions from hair.
In unison, rolling gently to the floor, I leave Romany god to his slumber.

Recomposing self and wardrobe from every part of this dark room,
breathing in deeply the mingled musk permeating each corner,
I fight desire to return and recommence.
Body memory pulls hard at inner muscles,
contractions transporting and pulling me back towards vacated port.

Picking up borrowed quill on even further borrowed time,
I attempt ink worthy of last nights’ gift.
Queue assist from delayed collation of text from yesterday’s novel:

‘Dearest James,
I ran into myself thinking
I was escaping with you.
You were a cairn leading home.
May I also be even the smallest of
Galway’s stones
in your own way finding.    
-R., The Train Window Girl’

Replacing lid, I crease paper consummately,
as the night had enfolded me.
Stealing silently back into room,
I gaze down one last time,
marveling at sleep’s ability to turn even thunder calm.
I inhale him in along with the truth of the night,
atomizing both into every cell.

Exhaling door closed behind me,
the cool familiar mist of my childhood embraces me
in salty retrouvailles.

Written by Trouble_Loves_Me
Author's Note
Absolute delight writing with Rachelle. We both have poignant connection with Galway. I did once escape to Galway, into arms of Romany ancestry, away from miserable r'ship in London.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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