I knew not what to give my love,
some thing his heart desired,
except a cocktail Molotov
or Semtex primed and wired.
While Sean eschewed the hackneyed dove,
and chose instead for me
a glistening, oiled Kalashnikov,
with warrantee: jam-free.
With these we pledged our passion to
a higher destiny.
The PE 4, Plastrite (Formex)
was furnished by the guv’.
Adding our plan to his projects,
Jak’ called us sis’ and bruv’.
Like Fawkes we schemed from Feb to Nov
to enter Big Ben’s tower,
whence to destroy the seat of gov-
ernment and all its power.
Posterity our names will praise,
revere our radiant hour!
On glory morn, like dogs Pavlov
obediently slavering,
the charge we hid in crates Smirnoff,
the excess vodka savouring.
I stumbled, gave the crates a shove,
as Sean lurched down the stair:
dismembered limbs, demolished dreams,
and dust clouds filled the air.
My loved one soared to realms above
– instead of Tony Blair.
I changed my plans, texted Jakov,
‘jak, u + i a pic cld c.
if u 1 cld tnk of.’
– My afternoon was free.
A DVD by Cath Deneuve,
a spliff and Clicquot’s Veuve,
and Jak beside me, in the hay,
’tis Paradise enough.
‘Fame’s great for some, perhaps,’ I said,
‘but I prefer a romp in bed.’
(c) Alan Donaghue 2009