Turning with a gristle snarlto a world of charcoal totems,barely holding against a sneeze,leaves one unfated Praying to understandthose crashing words and sung notesthat once lapped the craggy shores,now littering some isle in memory. Descendants, dumb and despondent:the voice of an ancestor brings 'emwhat warning or blessing but a shrug,Ar dheis Dhé go raibh a … Continue reading Ulva off Mull
Riddle me this, says a man shot to deathraising his unscathed hand,the man of contradiction loves to hate and hates to love,and the man of consistencyloves loving and hates hating,yet place them in a bar wantonand guess which animal will be mating.
Good mate he was,And a hard time he had of it,And we all heard of it at the pub,drowned with lager and crisps,cheers and tears at way the footballfell this way or that.Till an end to all thatcame with a violent phrase,"Calling it early boys" says he,"Met a girl, and she's special"We all knew that … Continue reading Sidecar ejection
The Lordy is always wonderingthe world on which we wander. Saint Stone saw upside downwell before your ponyheaded,blue dress head mess,stunted off the monkey bars.Seeing the trees rooted in skyand all we earth’d, held up by Grace.
There's as much sky withinthe space between leaves,as there is beside. There's as much fecundity inthe light under a door,as beneath a star. In this and by this,on fag ends and crisps,love still lives.
Sometimes infants cry from being withoutand sometimes from being. At the most life is a matter of not fucking up,at its least, a matter of fucking.There is a world elsewhere, says Coriolanus,wondering, 'Where else?'
The heart grows fonder yet,but not for a face I've met,for its far from mnemonic streetsthat I'll find what I crave to meet: It's far from the Helios glowwhere I will sit atop old Pluto,free from mnemonic lament,merely happy, to be absent.
My mother calls my name, for this or that, always the same, vacuum, sweep, some other chore, dishes, carpets, an endless bore, but end there will be, to chores and bores like me, and to my mother and her calling my name; a name, thereafter, never quite the same.
Ezra invented Chinese poetry, as the French did Arabian nights While we make what we can, of cello sounds and bleary sights. Our pretensions no less sacred than the baked bread invent of the gandy dancer, chimney sweep, billy boy pinsette, catchpole, clockwind, eggler, hobbler, knockerupper, man lector, o leech collector, nor mudlark, nor powdermonkey, … Continue reading 38 odd
why am I I and why are thou thou why is that then and why is then now and is a star bright because a shadow is dark and is the sun rising to hear the singing of a lark