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



The morning curdles over us

Cuddling like two spoons in a meringue

You’re the strawberries, your thighs the cream

I’m the blueberries, a syrup, clean

Twenty Nine: Two Thousand And Eighteen

The silent yellow hum of hundred full buses

Drive through Rathgar at dusk

The carriages rattle with blank tablets head on unambient

The sad Venezuelan frame overworked and underpaid

A limp visa sewn to her heart

A niggardly recompense for a dastardly socialism

I sit, White and anxious, once young and angry

Now just tired, stomach-fluttering, trying not to drink my age in Tequila shots


Victorian morning

He looked at his talon hands and made some coffee in the blue morning, the slumped carcass of some Victorian ghost outside, the 5:45 am mould peeling away from the window. The murmuring inside, a phantom’s hand pinching the flesh. He’d walk to the off-licence and start all the sweat all over again, start off all of the manic chattering again, the skeleton splinters and the wine falls out with shards, in shards and like shards of light and pain at that. Put on your slippers. He put on his slippers and went outside for a menthol cigarette – the minty chemicals playing tricks with his tongue and the streetlamp an orange menthol itself, some cryptic union. What’s that in your dressing down pocket? He fingered the seams of his Dunne’s Stores dressing gown, an old and discoloured blue with white stitching. Lint, dust, some loose tobacco leaf and half a pill – the size of a doll’s fingernail. He popped it in and chewed it. Mixing with the menthol he knew by instinct it was a sleeper, so he resigned himself for another four hours, as the clouds congealed overhead.

100 bowls of cereal

The frosted, putrid Satsuma

Decays in the yellow office

The bellicose White salespeople

Flog dead produce

To the tired Irish

And there’s only so much piling up of bodies you can do, only so much crying one Mother can do, before the chilblains grow teeth.  The fanged landlord can squeeze them like that Satsuma. Draining their piss and shit into a savings account on some grey main street. He pulls at his gonorrhea with soft fingers- the vicious, yellow honeyrot peeling away from his urethra like gum between fingers.

There’s only so many bowls of cereal you can eat. There’s only so many accumulators you can strike lucky on – so many cocaine-fueled Saturday nights in CityWest, so many ouija-boards, so many humble bus routes, so much organic hummus, so many flickering halogen street lamps, so many cold airport terminals, so much Camden Street, so much graffiti on the Dart line, so many leaves in the Phoenix park, so many yummy-mummies in Range Rovers. There’s only so much of it you can take before one bowl of cereal must become one hundred.

But you see the sweetness. You see the sweetness and humility in the people that come here in search of a better life. Zagreb, Serbia, Vilnius, Krakow, Lagos, Guadalajara, Caracas, Riga, Rio they’re all here. And it’s the inverse that strikes me. The inverse dynamic. TO BE THE HARBOUR. TO BE THE GLIMMERING PORT. Before it was the Irish in Boston. Or the Irish in London. Now we are creating new Southies. New Kilburns. The boroughs of Blanchardstown will be the bosom of some new vital and maudlin second generation pathology.  Welcome it. Welcome the new blood, for our blood is tired and deranged.


The slow vestibule

Fumigated , ignorant

Someone prays inside it now

Touched by the celestial

The November clouds and the wind

Designed by a sadist

Hungry for pain

Under a blanket of blue

Violence, stalks the airwaves. Deep in Dublin’s alleys and non possessive trenches. Why does it always scream like that? The hypodermic syringes. All shit and piss and blood and nothing down in the Italian quarter screaming to be heard yet a silent shout and nothing exists within the nothing which exists in the pain which exists and yet exists, somehow, through the void and gets all blue and reddish and blueish. It’s weird. It’s kinda weird the way I ink this and utter it all, utter all guttural and splutter it out. Maybe Tupac taught me. Not him. Biggie. Biggie was my boy. My champion. The Wu-Tang. Deep. Big-L. Queens. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Staten. These voices. That’s the one there, yes, that’s it.