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ISSUE:  Winter 2018


— after Frank O’Connor

The Earth spun on the Universal fanfare and the three of us were settled on 
the settee when the doorbell sung Big Ben’s [sic] dong, dang, ding, dung.

I elbowed the both of them. You go, or you go. I forget who did, it wasn’t me. 
I mind hearing, “Well, chums. We’re commandeering the car, get the keys,”

and seeing the Fat One’s skinny lips move, through a botched job of a 
stitched-up hole in a rolled-down knit cap-cum-balaclava.

I mind C. C. shouting, “Ernie, get the friggin’ keys, they have a gun!”
as I bent down to pause Sea of Love, and as quick as they came, they were gone.

I mind hearing the next day on the news how they shot some man 
twenty times, for something he’d done twenty years back—some bomb.

The Fat One stayed to mind the three of us. We sat in a huff
till he, seeing the TV, asked which film we’d been watching. “The Sea of Love,”

I told him. He took a sip of tea and said, “Oh…. Put it back on, isita good one?” 
I mind snapping: “Seemed deadon till youse cunts came.” On the Earth spun.



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