Poetry by Julian Judge
Dublin 1985
A bedsit’s biscuit brickwork Victorian remains on Eccles Street. You double latch the broken door while I lie still to hear a zip and watch a falling dress unpeel like unbound hair, your hairpins in your lip. Earlier, you’re moody, huddled under the Arch. ‘It’s cold, but I got paid. Take me to the Stags,’ you say. My bicycle’s locked to yours. Our shoulders brush on Dame Street and you don’t move away. Closing time and we’re last out, cuddling for a kiss on a corner. Tipsy heels click the street cobbling to a halt by the Ha’penny. ‘Let’s go,’ you say. ‘There’s still a bit to feed the gas. These shoes are killing my feet.’
Author’s Note: In 1985, many bedsits (very small studio apartments) had a coin-metered natural gas supply for heating. The line ‘to feed the gas’ refers to feeding coins into the meter to heat up the bedsit.
Julian Judge lives in Dublin but is from (and misses) The Inishowen, Donegal. His first novel Smog has no Shadow was runner up at Irish Writer's Novel Fair 2023. Previously, he was also runner up at Listowel Short Story 2020 with Blackflies and Bluebottles. His screenplay, Goblin Market, is currently in pre production.
Thank you for this Julian!