Chronicles of loss

Carlight on the avenue

Nothing left, only me and you

Waitlight shines blue and green

The cold comfort of the inbetween



They trumpet swatika

As if it’s damage

Nobody cares anymore

The next one is with the Stooge

Heightened lines in early Autumn

The illuminated paragraph of an evening

You discover me like Baudelaire

Wandering half-cut but full-cut on arms and legs

Chest caving in, catacombs of black prisms

Hard-drives chuffed, huffing and puffing

Competing with your psyche, trying to revel

In the multitude of thoughts


It’s nice, you know?

Being able to move your legs in the morning

To not have that fizzing, brimming nerve clenching dread

In the morning

To not have to grope yourself to the point of scrotal aridity in order to extirpate the waves of black horror

In ceaseless search of grim orgasm

Your joints setting against sinew like wet concrete against bone

And then the blood-vomit

Your flat is so overpriced, small and disorientating you think you’re back in Thorncliffe

Sixteen and stoned

Sheets and carpet congealed with yesterday’s cum

Serpents and dogs swim across the river

Down to Ringsend and Grand Canal Docks

Water phantasmagoria