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My life to brass tacks
Down to brass tacks Beneath marble, harsh stone Obsidian pillar of me, idiot bard self-marvelling Little regarding what retards my targeting truth Far from the thing’s root, suited hued in soot One foot in front another, marching to the crypt Clad black dressed for death you never know when No breath or tomorrow promised, no…
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Regarding my own works
Delving where I would not typically Bringing back the void lyrically From my black, seething wellspring Whence springs me, knowing me thence Thing unclean, unfit receiving hippocrene My unpublished books unfit even for charity shop shelves Beside Stieg Larsson, Stephen King, Stephanie Meyer and George Martin Present in every Concern and Vincent De Paul from…
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Poking dead dreams with a stick
I would be adoration’s target I dreamt of being a star In any field Now the very inkling sickens quickly More quickly than I sink to this quicksand that is life Nothing seems to stick, though I have applied adhesives thick, slicking My wick unredeemable grows diminutive indeed Godspeed I say myself, nobody else willing…
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Quantity surveying my hash
Keef as would fill up the stolen Mount Keefe Chalice Whose unknown maker his useless initials inscribed Elucidating nothing thereby, in 1590 It is like I am speaking of myself, whose writing trialful Turns many an eye away instantly, who could spite them Such rinds I peel away, which fall in orange spirals Are for…
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Canvas, palimpsest of self
Mind a Hockney, paint drip dropped Sold, pocket few bob But not, alas, popular Hocking loogies after bonging Daytime to deireadh seachtaine I have a sweet tooth that’s green My barra seacláide a green shock Elysian crop Hungarians grow in Dunshaughlin Shotgun grief, a formality, at the grave of one unequal.
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Alchemisland 