The groaning mists of her thighs

Embellish the air like honey gliding through the pockets of air left in bread

In the morning’s boulangeries of the fifteenth, we lay there, creased sheets doused in moonlit sweat, the febrile glow from fucking

Our hands collided like Venus and Jupiter while I suggested chocolate spread on a rustic baguette


I tip-toed across to Ségur for beer

Never coming back with the bread

You lay there indefinitely, wondering, crying, a familiar disappointment in your head

Our love is like that loaf, like that pan, like that baguette

Something soft, something warm, something universal – something neither of us can ever forget


The Donut

Who’s to say time has no linear shape at all, is more shaped like a donut, with the late ages being robotic, post-human futurism (eschatology), and the early ages as molecular, microbial plant life and the end being the Big Bang – all for things to be rearranged and formed again. 

What if certain creations were eternal, created WITHIN the frame of the donut, such as computer code (dna), algorithm (the hive mind) and at some point of inception people had an opportunity to tweak these fundamentals for good (eternal life, Zen, love, sharing) or bad (disease, fear, greed, corporatism).  At some point people would have the opportunity at some precise longitude and latitude of that donut to alter the course of that donut permanently – ultimately breaking its code and emancipating humanity from ‘The Cycle’ and unifying them with shapeless, formless Nirvana –  something non-corporeal, non physical – something that transcends capture or programmation or simulation. When humanity breaks apart the sugar, flour, milk, eggs and icing of the donut – they will truly achieve ascendancy to a universe that is equal parts sensuous, limitless, gorgeous, coruscating and voluptuous. 

Ireland was a young, impressionable nation when this constitution was devised – we are now older and wiser – have experienced the evanescent hedonism of the Celtic-Tiger, white knuckled austerity, welcomed same sex marriage and elected an openly gay taoíseach to see it all through. A small country, intellectually liberated and no longer servile to colony, God or State. I want law to reflect this.

Spirituality should not monopolized by the world’s major religions. Spirituality should not be conflated with politics, and spirituality shouldn’t be coerced into the ethical argument, either. Spirituality is love, be it chemical, hormonal or whatever. Biological/political realities such as fertility, infertility, motherhood, death, profundity/miraculousness of life should never be tied up by the politik. These things are persuasive vestiges of the Catholic Church to further an oppressive governance in tandem with the State- things they couldn’t scientifically comprehend so created a mystical cultural orthodoxy to control, through which a country became so enfeebled many of our greats had to travel abroad to feel intellectually emancipated. But, then aha!, you see it was the Irish MALE writer who gallantly went abroad to escape the censorious religiosity at home – yes, ennoble him! don’t mention the unspeakable Women!

You must consider this too, that, when the political hierarchy of’ 37 were fundamentally devout on enshrining spiritual life as public life – there was never going to be a sexual revolution, a liberation of consciousness that occurred in France, the US or England. This is what created the curiousness of the Irish psyche – that pallid mixture of post-colonialism, the collective melancholy caused by famine related death and famine related emigration and you’re going to have a very vulnerable nation – easily hypnotized by Yer Man Upstairs. What’s more governable – a country that believe the will of government is the will of the Supernatural? Easy peasy. Masterstroke. Give that man a pint so he doesn’t question it.

Unfortunately that spiritual doctrine was Roman Catholic – a crazed, superstitious,clandestine, prehistoric cult full of fantasy and allegory – NOT something that should ever have pervaded individual Irish public life, least of all through a legally binding constitution. But then – we’d no identity – quick! give us Dogma and a thousand Hail Mary’s (prayer as hypnosis, the virgin as Martyr, immaculate conception, sex as sin, Sunday mass as social magnification, yadda-yadda).

Religious teachings can be morally anchoring, give succour and ballast to billions of people all over the world; but – when the folklore of ancient times leaves Irish women living 2018 in crippling bondage to the State, a state of theocratic politics, then it’s time to update the reality.

Feel free to absorb yourself with as much Rosecrucian esotericism as you like, Francis! just don’t immolate the rest of us poor beggars! 

A monotheistic dogma may be welcomed by some (masochists), and, will probably persist privately among thousands of those of whom the ascetic & subservient life gets their juices flowing, but – to impose this theocracy on an entire nation is alarmingly unfair and anachronistic. To have a mystical will of a supposedly divine entity govern and invade first of all a political arena is egregious, but, for it to then infest lives of women in the most appalling ways imaginable, of women who just wanted to be free to choose, to not have their personal narratives changed by the signatures of a few. This is a change to their lives with the X’s of the many. If there’s one thing we can be thankful for, it’s living in a democracy with the power to alter this harrowing reality once and for all.

This is not a referendum about gleefully carving up foetuses (some of the images I’ve seen on the Pro-Life side have given me week-long nausea and are grossly misleading and inaccurate) – this is about creating laws that are commensurate with a sophisticated, well educated, progressive European country. Obstetricians, gynecologists and WOMEN should be given more air time than anyone else over the coming weeks. That’s not to extirpate the voices of men, although this commands acute, technicolour debate.

Catholicism is a thought policing, society policing, womb policing Orwellian fantasy – something far more insidious and degenerate than Zuckerberg, Trumpism or the E.U. It may persist in some pockets of pre-industrialized corners of the world and so it may. Again, I do not renounce a spiritual dimension but it should be private and never invade political frameworks, inform laws, or eviscerate lives. I do not want the women of my nation of birth be subservient to a constitution informed by apocryphal scripture that tells them motherhood is all they’re ever destined to achieve – even if it means taking them with it.

Repeal the eighth amendment.

Thoughts of a bedraggled and hungover 30 year old.

Oxytocine drought. Love me, you morally depraved rump. Either that or you stomp and stamp your creased sheets under me, singing opera in some narcotic moonterror. The briars are cold and vitiate the blade in the morning. The rattling eel always makes his move before the bruised morning light ghouls into focus, the silver acetate, the social theatres. We’ve all got Gods in our hands now – no focal memory, just juxtapositions, tender, spectral horology. What is the cryptic code for all of this? Are the Russians really reading? Their great titans like Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekov, even the brilliant poet Mendelstam. Are they stamping down from pillar to post to wrench away stability from the West while we lament and scapegoat the brittle bronze armour of a European schism. Putin looks like an pensive shark chiselled from Siberian marble. Bashar Al-Assad and his allies in Iran hear no screams as children’s lungs fill with hydrochloride. There is just a wasteland, just a dusty, empty deathbowl. Syrian regions produce wine, could produce food, could survive without both Amercian interventionism but not with bi-lateral dictatorship that sees oil and arms sold to Saudi Arabians to kill Yemenis, Israelis to butcher Palestinians, not to mention the hacking of limbs in Rohingya.
Maybe if Zuck increased our privacy settings,gave us a goblet made of cheese or just, you, know, sucked us off, things would become a little less unbearable. The custodians in power positions are bellicose, spoiled babies. Macron is a nightime cruising banker – nothing he says is listened to. France want to federalize their banks to heap even more weight onto their deadtowns, where I have been, and it is a tourist economy.
What is our conversation about? Yes, we have a generationally defining referendum coming up at home which we, as men, have a direct responsibility to uphold. But, after this, after we move into Ireland in 2020, a new dawn will have risen and we will have to embrace more immigrants, end the homelessness and addiciton epidemic (mental health services are vital in this regard as statistically people who end up on the streets have a diagnosable mental health issue). Connect Cork-Limerick-Dublin as vital European cities and stop fetishising Dublin.
This country should not have expelled any Russian diplomats, a petulent, irritant of a gesture and nothing that carries any real weight. World War Three is coming and it will involve Iran and Russian military seizing most of the middle east’s oil reserves, selling back to the world as the economy crashes in 2040 and we’re on the brink of famine in the Western world living on bean curd but still using instagram, and then, PRINCE WILL COME BACK AND SING I WOULD DIE 4 U and then we’ll all eat tacos and say “phew”, that was close.


Here it is,

There is a crescent moon

A depleted, lunar centre

Like a cake with only an eighth’s frosting

Only a quarter coconut pastry (although doughtnuts are the thing now – some analogy for the purported shape of the universe)

Maybe it’s an analogy for the shape of consciousness – always encircling, never stuffed

What kind of weird generation is this?

The half-self, half-frosted, half-sure all the time, hollowed by this virtual realm

The self can be uploaded, updated and tailored to suit the material vision

Will we ever go back to porridge and brandy and poetry

Do we even fucking want to?

My father reminisces about times when pubs were organic, flexing forums

Not instagrammed, not whatsapped and facefucked to death

There is very little left to discover

Very little untapped earth to breathe quietly

Very few arcane hamlets in Goa to perform white yoga in

Very few exotic fruits to pair with humans

Except maybe when Greenland thaws

The Hair of The God

He entwined their hands softly under the February morning light. With her heart in Mexico and her future in Canada he kissed her sadly, knowing that these were the last mornings. Mornings he would often spend in an agitated fugue, feeling the alcohol drain out his system, like a cistern replenishing brandy with spring-water. They had met on an October night in Rathmines – she a pioneer, having never touched a drop of alcohol in her life. He was forlorn at this point, living at home with his Mother, a sad and dreary symphony of thoughts would percolate through his brain for hours – attenuated only by, and paradoxically exacerbated by, alcohol. The mist is a cruel thing. Call it depression, call it any snazzy code word you want – The Black Dog, The Hair of The Dog –  so many Dogs involved in this pernicious union of misery and addiction. But, there is hope. Hope in the way he looked at her. Hope in the way the dawn’s chorus settles on the wind like a treble clef made of caramel twined with minims and clovers made of dewy glitter. I’m going to be thirty in just over two months. A decade spent silently howling in pitiable penury – an interminable maturing. It’s not going to be another melancholy departure, a shocking abandonment would not creep over his heart again like wire. This time it is different. This time it will be the Hair of The God. 


Coping on the horizon as the internet stretches and bleaches the stitch

My arrow anxiety, the daily archery to the artery

Or was it his soul? The wound is pink anyway, awkward like chicken wire on my arm

There is no pen to grip, just keys to mash

Only organic, gluten free craft free porter free from additives

Sexually coloured like a ruby cloud in my glass

I pour it over my skin

And comb the intestines of Temple Bar in the wind