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Burnt back The Liberties
Wax cast of my own face worn as a mask, wolf wool-wearing faux flock Waving my Tullamore ashplant to lull the masses into disastrous fandom Blocks of flats chocoblock with rats twisttailed Swab any inch of the wall, test green for scabies Rotten like Johnny, how it’s still standing ask the man Rubber johnny tumescent…
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Inner City Oldtime
Our own tongue throat stranger And failing to nourish will or may perish We pause, wishing to answer betters in Irish Cannot know a lost language Vanishes, we answer in English Less than swill of which our Liffey consists. What is Irishness What is native wit? Slack jaws guffawing Slenting houses built from haunted bricks…
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New jungles
Machete in the busy sweaty wrist of a muscle-riven junglist Horse-hung statues riderless, unbridled Our guide won’t stop keeps chopping Frightful jungle corridor alive with raw stingers Dangers for those who linger Concourse of unseen watchers like a haunting, Amazons reborn Self-highting Brides of Spite crudely bedight with breast bared uncaringly If they ride down…
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Alchemisland 