sea of Club Milks

Is it wrong to be inspired by someone on drugs?
I feel powerful, I feel heroic, I feel like I could save the world, I feel like rock stars must.
I'm alright in my pudgy, jerky way; I am golden
And a thin boy sits still in a chair
thinking of flappers and cod suits and languid
langorous lovers in sun-chairs abroad.
He's behind me in a nervous laugh and his hands are pretty; I want to save him,
him and the rest of the world.
Pick them up in my red cloak and carry them over everything,
to show them just how small they are, just how beautiful and fragile and pointless we all are.
And our purpose is no purpose, it is to simply exist and be happy, to pick up one's feet at the bus stop and make the best; chin up, love.
I am everyone's mother, why don't they understand this?
I am sixteen and wet-haired and wiser than anyone can say.1

"their hearts in Tipperary wherever they go"
And my father's like that, crouching dignified pleas
His heart in Kerry wherever he goes.
Invested in the green, the soil and sand and those he knows, has known forever.
Old Thomas walks to Listowel and back every day, in blue cap and plastic bag and I'd smile at him and him at me
Toothless "how are you"
I haven't seen him though, been too caught up in music and history, in not being around.
My sister's coat looks like his, wore it rain or shine, July or January. I hope he's still alive. Good man, good man.2