Yes but I fall into. Yes, “I”. Can I use the I? Or my eye? Can I say eye now or is it I or they or what or him or them or is it even my brain at all? My orgasms are stronger when I’m depressed – they penetrate the mist when I’m depressed – dissipate the fog when I come all the more hungrier, all the more lonely. And then that rush gives me license to go play in the evening with wine and scents and the hum of tress and things like this after the rush of come on my fingers. And then I smoke a cigarette after the first nice glass or two, after my sac’s been drained of all that mad energy – all that mad frenetic energy packed into two little balls. And I’d of course prefer to empty it all inside of you and then let the pill kill it for what’s it worth other than some other cranky cunt in nineteen or so years time, groping through the weirdness, any harbour in the anxiety, any port of relief – no but fuck that, I’d rather come inside you and watch your little shoulders tremor as I climb inside and pluck your bow and make your nerves dance and the shivers down your spine and the rush, the rush and the noise of Parisian traffic outside and some banal thought fleeting through after the profound like what vegetables to serve with the fish and what time will the magic hour be when it’s just you and me and sheets and softness and no agony but not now, now I’m fucked, alone, asunder, tossing myself off to some Russian waif being thrown about by these numbskull pornstars, tossing and jamming and ramming and wailing and all of those things, all of those memorable moments are just an afterthought after I come onto my own sheets alone, not even beating to the memory but to some remote cyber island, a lurid oasis of come and anal and feet and tits and blowjobs and discharge and sperm and the memories are this now, this is what I’ve chosen to invest in because I know all of that is irreplaceable but maybe you’ll take some comfort in this and now that I’m alone perhaps I’ll expire jacking against my own reflection after nine Smithwicks to PornHub, and that’ll be me fucked at 65, heartattack, dribbling little old man cock with a PornHub playlist still drilling into to void, the paramedics having to close the tab and close the lid.

Feast of cunt

Paranoid ocean tendril

Crack, creak, crack, spy!

The brain drowns under its own velvet duressssssuh! Wandering, wandering, warning why not tongue wagging won warning under over down over under beneath wine wine wine blast!

Ah – he’s an alcoholic! Leave him. Leave him in his own filth. Cast him out. Eat the eggs. Smoke the spliff you daft cunt. Drink the coffee you fat twat. You daft fat twat. You twit. Not good enough. Not hard enough. Hard in a room full of blokes. Sensitive, was it? Sensitive, is it? Sensitive much? Feminism? Faminism? Famine? Feast or famine? Feast of cunt.

At one

That twilight on the banks of the Lee where we embraced first

And you unfurled your butterfly eyes at me, your black lashes like plumage

I knew, I knew we’d deepen and intoxicate like wine

And it’s not goodbye — it’s a lullaby

We’ll wake again in some magic room

Together, again


At one

Sandymount twilight

Shy away from the crude poisons – retreat into cotton beds

I can see my sister cutting birthday cake in a gauze parallel

But in the grotto it’s fine – she’s stood there encased in a rain of pink blossoms

And the daily crepuscular panoply of aromatic sunsets

And the bow of rains that followed, streaking iridescent gossamer across the ash blue canvass

Our frames mingle with lithe,  aqueous Рspellbinding warmth!

And I sink inside your lagoon and divest myself there

And then another, flutters across the tiles, an olive skinned butterfly

I drift inside the arena of my own unconquerable mist


Cannibal Mist

The carousel, which once spun freely

Is now a macabre tornado, coloured by the blended entrails of children

Ashen faced paramedics with trembling hands

Remove infant limb and maternal skull from fairground iron

Entire generations devoured by a putrid ideology

In a sick, deranged cannibal mist

Lahore’s streets are now festooned with the midnight ghosts

Of Mothers and their children

Pale spectres ascend to some foreign bough

To escape the roaring fireworks of blood and organ

And exist tender

In a kinder parallel


I watch the frieze of phosphorescent vapours arc across the blue

Beams and spears of sacred colour

Peeling back the tombs of fear I have been encased among

And I feel my heart thud softly against the gentle breath of Springtime

And I freely anticipate

The loves I have yet to love

The love that will surely come

Like a young olive grove swathed in moonlight


Roaring dawn’s holy verse into a hollowed turret full of raw white fires

Peering at the mournful rows of druids and the chalices of incense burning on the bogs

Smoky churchlights, searchlights and seraphs blink in ancient code

Crows hang clutched above in the naked bare oak with hooded guns

Crippled , dry, I drink the divine bloodlight of the morning, with my eyes

And I, a cock! A cunt! A lousy pillock! Standing here with my cock in my hand

Wanking over LA porn, strangling my venom onto my knuckles only to watch it

Congeal in the pale cloudlight

I look to the gutter and envy the wet moss there, inert and earthy and sodden and moist there

And imagine my corpse becoming enveloped by its permanence, its wholeness