Chapter 15: Slurping, Moaning, Slapping, Panting
From the point of view of making a living in Ireland (a point of view I preferred not to adopt, but which was unavoidable as the bills started to become overwhelming) it was easier to be a visual artist than a poet. That hadn’t always been the case. In the – admittedly mythical – past, a poet could be as powerful as a king. There was a poet in the legends from the Ulster Cycle who used to go around the country making outrageous demands for hospitality. Knowing that the nobles he visited were terrified of being shamed for eternity as a result of his composing a scathing and devastating line or two, this poet regularly turned up at a court to demand a night with the wife of the local king. I remember reading this and wondering what the woman concerned felt. She probably wasn’t too impressed at being bartered over. And yet the story took it for granted that the licentious poet was indeed a genius capable of magic through his words. Perhaps he was amazing in bed, composing while in the throes of passion and thrilling his lover to the core of her being. A whispered massage of the erotic imagination being more sensual than a physical one of the body.
I was musing on the financial plight of modern poets while in the bedroom listening to Daniel and Chris, who were in the lounge beyond the closed door. Chris O’Donovan was another poet. Chris had lived for a while in Oliver Bond flats, which, it seemed, qualified him to write about poverty, heroin addiction, and violence, always in the key of anger. To my mind, he was a terrible poet, rarely rising above doggerel.
The boys were making a podcast together: Lenin’s Goatee. Inspired by the success of independent podcasts, such as that of Blindboyboatclub, they had set about creating a regular show and had promoted it heavily on their socials. Lenin’s Goatee brought in only about twenty Euro a month from Patreon and from a financial point of view wasn’t worth their time. Still, they enjoyed making it and I was happy to stay out of their way while they broadcast revolutionary-poetic banter to an imaginary audience of thousands.
After a debate as to the merit of Gerard Manley Hopkins – I was only paying attention enough to note that in the atheist corner was Chris, disapproving of the role of God in Hopkins’ poetry and in the more tolerant and therefore more well-disposed corner was Daniel – the podcast recording must have stopped for their voices dropped to a murmur. A while later, about the time it took to read a chapter of Sally Rooney’s latest, and the bedroom door opened.
Red-cheeked, bright-eyed, and with a bottle of Jameson in hand, Daniel said, ‘we’ve a great idea. A threesome!’
Behind my lover, the taller Chris looked at me over Daniel’s shoulder and ran a hand through his hair. There was a louche, bohemian style about Chris that seemed to me to be a contrivance: his dark hair was a mop top, with the addition of a long fringe; his purple, large-collared shirt was unbuttoned sufficiently to reveal his collar bone; his jacket was velvet; and Chris was looking at me with insistent eyes through thick, black, rectangular glasses.
‘A threesome? Great! Let me know who you pick for it!’
I closed my book and made to get up.
‘With you, obviously.’ Daniel’s momentum had at least been checked while he was still in the doorway and from there he blinked twice before focusing properly on me.
‘I didn’t know that Chris and Elaine were in an open relationship.’
That remark took the leersome smile away from Chris, who mumbled something.
Standing now, I said, ‘I was just contemplating on the power of poetry to be erotic. Give me a line, Chris, seduce me with your words.’
Daniel turned to his friend expectantly.
‘Er. Listen! If stars are lit, it means there is someone who needs it.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said.
‘Cyn means original lines,’ said Daniel. My partner, even when brainsoaked by speed and whiskey can read a room, especially a room with me in it. He knew that his great idea filled me with contempt. The bottle of whiskey was lowered and Daniel stepped back, pushing against Chris in order to leave the bedroom.
What did my twin think of Chris? I summoned Celine into my thoughts and asked her, closing my eyes. My expectation was that she would deliver a scathing image or idea, one that would confirm my assessment of the failings of the man wanting to join Daniel and I in bed, I was taken aback by the appearance in my imagination of the word LOVE outlined in a pink glow against a black background. I knew what Celine was communicating and I felt slightly abashed. It was too easy to dislike Chris and far more worthy and interesting to love him. There was a loveable core in there somewhere, a buried child. Then again, my id enjoyed being perverse and contrary. She might have sent that image just to wind me up.
‘Ahh, never mind Cyn. Not such a great idea. Sorry.’ Daniel backed away further, taking Chris with him and closing the door.
Still experiencing the mind state of someone attempting to appreciate the loveable in Chris, I quite enjoyed flipping my feelings from one completely different perspective to the other: between anger and kindness, scorn and empathy, Tony Soprano and Ted Lasso. She was kidding though, Celine, I was pretty sure of that now. And even if she wasn’t, I came down on the side of righteous indignation. Chris was an ass.
Soon after, I heard the flat door close and the place fall quiet. Evidently undismayed and still buoyant on speed, whiskey, and having broadcast their opinions about poetry for an hour, the boys had gone out on the tear. Good luck to them. My dream awaited and it suited me to have the bedroom to myself.
***
The train is so crowded that Paul McCartney is sitting on the floor. He is merry about this though and everyone in the vicinity is in a good mood as a result. A situation that could have led to bitterness and a miserable train journey for all concerned has been transformed into an entertaining experience by the joviality of the celebrity. If Paul McCartney is willing to have a laugh in this crowded carriage then so can the rest of us.
‘Mind if I take a picture of you on the floor?’ I ask him. Such was the good-nature of his remarks (in that familiar scouse accent) to the people around him, that I am confident that Paul will not object to my request.
‘Go ahead,’ he says, and poses by waving around a unicorn eraser that is on the top of a pencil that a child has given him.
My camera app will not open. I am aware of the seconds passing. Can feel Paul McCartney looking expectantly at me. When at last – thank God – the camera icon widens across the screen, everything goes black. It’s not working properly. Only now do I realise I am in a dream. Of course I cannot take Paul McCartney’s picture, this isn’t real.
‘Never mind,’ I say, ‘the phone’s broken.’
No longer on hold, Paul McCartney goes back to chatting to the passengers around him. It’s obvious that he has a strong affinity with them.
‘Who did you write Love Me Do for?’ asks an elderly woman in a bright green cardigan. She is minding two young children, probably her grandchildren.
‘You, of course!’ says Paul.
‘I told you,’ the woman gives the white-haired man beside her a nudge with her elbow.
‘I thought it was for me,’ he says.
Paul laughs and not for a moment upstaged says, ‘Ah, we didn’t write love songs for guys back then or I would have.’
‘Paul, can I show you something?’ George Harrison is to my left, in the aisle.
‘Not now George,’ says Paul, looking away almost immediately.
‘You can show me,’ I offer, feeling sorry for George. He appears grateful and we carefully step over legs and cases until we are clear of them and can walk to the front of the train, which is a stone quayside and harbour, filled with sailboats.
‘I’ve been learning to sail.’ George is almost apologetic for acquiring this unorthodox skill. ‘I think we can get there just as easily this way.’
I don’t agree but because George is feeling neglected, I get in the boat while he moves back and forth, preparing to cast off.
‘Permission to come aboard?’ My twin! I’m delighted to see her. It’s her spirit that allows me to recognise her, not her physical appearance, which is that of a young woman wearing an ochre hoody and a puff jacket (with leopard spots). Her dark hair is gathered in a green scrunchy; she has purple fingernails; and a fair amount of bling. And she is carrying a very cute little dog, so full of energy it is trembling all over as it sniffs the air from the safety of her arms.
‘Who are you supposed to be?’ I ask.
‘Call me Charlotte. You passed her on Dorset Street on the way to the dry cleaners.’
‘That was months ago.’
Charlotte shrugs, then turns her attention to George. ‘Can we come with you?’
The Beatle looks dubiously at the dog, which begins to yap at him.
‘Hush. Stop. Stop.’ Apologetically, but also laughing, my twin holds the dog more firmly.
‘Maybe leave the dog?’ I suggested.
‘Hardly, dear. He’s your courage.’
If that’s true, I’m not impressed. Shrill, over-eager, creature.
George has lifejackets for us all, even a bright orange one for the dog. And contrary to my expectations, he delivers us to where we need to go.
‘Thank you, George,’ I say as I hold his hand to step out of the boat, ‘you were right. You did have a better way of getting here than the train.’
He looks very pleased with this, though he says nothing.
I have arrived. I am home. Only it’s not home but a hall full of people sitting cross-legged and looking towards the front, where an astonishing demon stands on one leg, the other raised. In its eight arms it holds a variety of weapons and black fire streams from its head. I’ve seen this demon in a book on early modern Buddhist art. His name is Tikamanda.
‘Oh, I love that demon,’ mutters Charlotte. ‘Imagine how good he’ll be in bed, with all those hands.’
‘Yesterday,’ he says, voice surprisingly gentle for his powerful form, ‘Martha answered a question about attachment to one’s family by saying that of course we believe in Boyle’s Law and the Parallelogram of Forces. I must correct this by pointing out that all attachment is illusion, even that of a parent to their toddler.’
My twin leans close. ‘He’s like me.’
‘Like you?’ Realisation floods me. ‘He’s a symbiont?’
Charlotte looks offended but I know she isn’t really. ‘You’re the symbiont, dear. We got along perfectly well without you for hundreds of thousands of years.’
‘Why is it here?’
‘Curiosity. I think it came of its own accord when Neo, or Amanda, or one of the DreamAds operatives opened the route to your dream.’
If I dislike the presence of DreamAds staff in my dreams, at least they are there by agreement. This feels like an invasion and I am frightened. My courage starts to growl at the demon and I suddenly appreciate the little dog. He, at least, is not cowed by the enormous eight-weapon-wielding being.
‘How are you enjoying my dream?’ Charlotte steps forward and speaks loudly, causing all the audience to look at her.
Cyn Sweetwater[1], ‘Observations on the Encounter of Two Symbiotic Ids in the Same Dreamscape’, in Sweetwater et al., Diverging Theories on Dreaming: Between Jung, Surrealism, and Psychedelics (Dublin, 2025), pp. 34-54, here p.50:
Shed of encumbrances the id labelled Celine had a lithe, sinuous walk that was far more feline than human.[2]
Head: dainty, accessorized, luscious.
Expression: defiant, intrigued, expectant.
Mannerisms: jaunty, confident, demon-may-care.
From the opposite side of the hall, Tikamanda lowered his foot and adopted a martial pose.
My feelings: terror, a flash of a train moving at lethal speed directly towards me.
A small dog is barking at the top of his voice, never more combative than in this moment.
Celine removes her coat, unbuttons her dress and steps out of it. To the clatter of weapons falling to the ground, the demon rushes upon her, envelops her and…
Feelings: flushed, molten, unconstrained, rampant, urgent.
Faces of the audience: shock, embarrassment, envy, desire, shame.
The dog, realising there is no danger, falls silent.
Sounds: slurping, moaning, slapping, panting.
[1] Graduate of the National College of Art and Design, Dublin, Ireland.
[2] I have since attempted to incorporate it into my own movements, with only modest success.