This is ferrous thundering outrageous . I was not asked.To accept our recalcitrant gene C 282 Y which had mutated mutely enough in a West of Ireland bog, in letÂ´s say ca. 550 B.C. with my neolithic bog-crowd of the blood which was up. This is on sanguine me as it is on my childrenÂ´s boggy consanguinity, a haemo-outrage which rather makes a hames of plans for a quiet and holy life with the water-cress and the swine-herdÂ´s heeled dinge in the mud of my forest-clearing, pink autumnal sun slanting .
This waste of iron in my body or yours was unheard of, cromatosis unsung at the field-day for Celtic leeches and the physicians of Old Ireland at Ould Ferrous Fair. Now for New Blooded Ireland. Bring down the Ferritin readings, and iron-levels in blue blood, your low-slung speed and slung-behind-you forest harp. And would you mind playing us a ” No grief is good grief ” planctus while the ferritinous outrageous is sucked out with phlebotomizing deceits for vacuum-bottles extracting our life-raspberry juices. Play us also that older harpersÂ´ tune: ” Bring out the bright wine of your veins, missus! “.
I was mocked by the mute microcosmos of gene Cork 282 Yourself . Iron it is is in the blood, iron is in the man, iron the mark and marrow sometimes of somatic courage . A steely, cold eye , a ferocious friendship help while veins are bleeding, letting, releasing what was never wanted like that in that West of Ireland bog, our volcanoes scarcely muted, the Irish-speaking wolf co-habiting with the Great Elk. Blather on is another ploy of some leeches to distract from our amassing ferritinously unfunny minerals planning their comfy storage in thy life-blood till youÂ´re a little older, a little bit colder, and Â´tis then theyÂ´ll creep out and theyÂ´ll maxi-mushmake your organsÂ´ music. Wait and feel ! ” Wei tan phÃ¶l “, is what sheÂ´d be bound and trussed to say, wrapped up in her unwashed mouse-droppings shroud, watching the needle seek the black-red wine, beaded bubbles winking in the syringe, in good strong bog-man veins. It flows, dietary iron overload, my ironic health, our paenchymal cells and all zygosity unwanted . Good ghosts of Trousseau and Professor Recklinghausen, leave the leeches snooze. Steely Sparta, we were not told, knew nothing of a cryptonite-overload in their warriors at The Hot Gates . Bronze and steel may break my bones but only iron will play my organ-music riotously, raucously , ferro-techno Rundlied a-pounding in scraggy pancreas , fat liver, fat life. It is because iron does not pity. Ferritin will not spare poor rich or poor sods in any West Irish bog , we are back in ca. 550 B.C. – the bog that embedded Our First Parents of all that harbour mutant C 282 Y for forty fat years and then twenty lean and then, if they donÂ´t phlebotomize their big bloody red selves very quick, another twenty of funk , beflunked, organs shrunk and Down the Old Bog Road it shall be, surly sir. Prepare that vacuum-bottle, this our helping needle. Prick illusions, pray, prick our plans but leave us a beaded future, our liquid dark-blue bubble. ( Sterile, of course. ) Throw only then away whatÂ´s painlessly extracted, using vacuum and gravity and the veinÂ´s own common sense. We will distinguish further between haemoglobulous and hobgoblin and weÂ´ll let minerality and plain old anaemic being be, blood being thicker than iron-water, ion-blood being heavier than ferrous rinsings, the leavings of the blood-systemÂ´s butter-churn, the scum of the bog and iron-ore stores unattended till late in the day of the forest-clearing down by water-cress and cowsÂ´ milk sup in a mud-deli gouged by an unwashed swine-herd heel, the blood urging in pancreas, liver, deep heartÂ´s core as well. Or consider the scarecrow and I this evening. In his veins no blood, no problem, no ruddy courage. No chromatic melody either. And yet remember his holy saw-dust , please, when the crimson clouds blow on. Do not forget sour blue-purple grape- and vein-juice nor yet your haemoferritin factory when we get to putting out the lights. Waste not, want not, pouring down the sink your veinÂ´s beastings , not venery, yes pumpery; thus I muse as I bask in the anaemic dip in iron energy; only then leave aside her unwashed mouse-dropping shroud for some slight post-transfusionary hours , sailing out to the sun-set at the Great Red Blood-Orange Bar of Mr. Whistler. “Wei tan phÃ¶l”, “No grief is good grief” ” Bring out the bright wine of your veins, missus!” – all established traditional-veined ayres for the tuned-up harper couchant. Also his dance-tunes: ” Keep the bottle sterile”, ” Love thou a shiny syringe” or ” Mutant down the ould bog-road” , these consolations of the red badge of his courage, thin enough and slow to drip .