Votive (Eas)
Ériu tinkered with the ground.
the push of her blood
readies the soil for atomic excitement.

let life drip away as a changed river
and our bodies will be forged from expired leaves
(or marquees to the ant).

another fire witnessed the Wicklow mountains,
it’s flames your hair waving
searching for the wolf calls,
in absent trails,
that rise to the clouds
who feed the spruce prisons.

as the maiden sun settles her head
on the anarchic pillow of Eiscir Riada
talon shrills in the tenements of Eden
stretch over the knotted sea.

we are framed in interlude
in love and observant,
the ingredients for daytime buried.
translated nettle reply, are
the last to apologise.
the beaded necklace of silk catches rain
before it could live out it’s dream.
above my face derelict Devonian homes pulse.
I hear the wars dangling, the branches no longer hold up the air.
native architraves fall like tears
on the sloped cheeks of the West.
sirens of the hill
take my ears
to the thin wild grass whispering in rustle,
to off kiltered cairns speaking through roofbox,
to the smouldered pupils of Harvest’s end.


A Projection
I once saw smooth realities
of piggies and primary colours.
dotted amongst my weightless eyes
nothing was more of a thrill than knowing
the mute fly was just as dead as I will be.

wolves kill, I made my communion
and then I was to pay my way.

some birds that visit my garden
end up on porches.
it’s a nuisance to rid of a body
when it passed for no good reason.

I sat by my dad in The Pound
feet dangling, hands drawing a child’s economy.
at chin height was the counter
of beer mats made of half cardboard, half smell.
in the steppe of lager
I went between the bold lines
ignorant of the bones beneath
my skin.


Page Empty
all wilderness within
kilometres of me
are being replaced.

we are lost of
the nomadic words in feeling.

in someone’s history
a word’s letters were interrupted
to set a new world
to rowse:
the rose flowering.


work –
in the crepuscule it creeped
from moss covered stone
to barren tiers.
the cycles of weeks
are nothing more to a beech
than fetters of us.

studying under yōkai,
finger molds of rock,
folk echoes that return annually
these are all
slowly ephemeral
in the gust of resource.

nothing will clear this air.
I mime the rain.
the sound of concrete
will not replace the felled wood.

33, 41 or 41c
the unknown corner beneath the
Irish Life office block, with
dripping pipe speaking
of the goings on
into a motionless pool.
all the commotion
of Universe inside.
in this bare crypt it will not
grow or shrink.
it will look to the sadness system, above.


it isn’t easy to shade to an accuracy
as momentous as this.
with the hanging of my eyes
twice I have seen the disc
black and faceless – in fox dreams,
on a bed of tears, in a garden
we are okay as today is just a day.

my body is floating beneath this half moon
meanwhile my top half breathes in voices of
every crying wave
that I’ve meddled with

To The Train
the canal bridge
Maynooth train station
my head sometimes is too
quick for my hands to hide.

the lamp post light bullets
toward it’s reflection
like a swarm of wrens
binchy to the eye.
they gathered for the evening meeting
with the newborn flies.


I notice
the horses graze alone
in single colours.
it seems to be cat versus cat
all this moving info
edge on to an edge manic.

heavy on the road
my mind ceases to feel
all the genres of green
in hold of an eternal fern.

a human tide has been
the prevailing moth,
mistaken sensilla,
mistook light for a promise.


A Wrath
burgled weather or a hardened oak
wanting respite from the
far reaching havoc
of Australia.

it’s lineage torn for legacy
a wake for the blackened
open casket
a cannibal like tale.

“batten down the hatches”
spoke the haloed murmur

“within your feet I will reach
to make you tip-toe around me
as you steal,
as I relieve myself of
ancient efficiency”.

it’s not rain falling I hear
but the forgotten weights
the unbalancing ballet.


miasmatic innocence
enters the hall on occasion.
I take a sip of coffee
warm, not hot
I see the droplets
stretch across the window
huddled together in barricades
of my house.

a house is not a home
continues on with the random
pirouetting of water
from the drenching sky.

to be before birth, I imagine
is to be both fearful
of parenthood
and a forgetting existence.

how scared must a baby be
when told of the snake,
the green of grasses,
the emptiness of felling
one will get
and how both
river and stranger
have mouths.


Stolen Memories of 1958
mirrors of yellow
some Indian pipes of Spring
seize Proserpina.

majorly primate
actions underway within
a week of saddened.

the deceiving sun.
reposing morality
lulls when I awake.

dream you fell in love
in rage with a faceless girl
stuck in a prism young.


apropos sprouts from the flower bed.
slept it did for months
on end, on hinge, in muck
until finally someone knocked
on its door of being
asking it to greet the guests
of the dew and cherub.


the cushions askew at night
when all are bed ridden
they acquire a pose
as days don’t exist.

a lone flicker of candlelight
can turn the street
into a ritual.
never a moment shot into
the square window
so fast.


I step off the bus from work.
the orange colour is around
from street lights controlled
by the sun.
sounds of construction have stopped
giving the trees that face me
a chance to whisper.
one tells me
a pine, one of the end ones,
looks at the apartments
next door
which make it brown with the
past in sight.

they each wait until I pass
in that brief world
to tell me
their tales.

a distant firefly turned to
a plane in navy night
headed for the coin slot moon.

that orange mixed with
pale grey hints
reflects in splatter of a puddle.
within the puddle is black
as if it were a hole
extending to the graves
of the forgotten.

I can make the dust dance
by my bedside lamp
in the same room
where she died –
the woman who shares
a common surname.


To Smile
water seems to fit in
anywhere it wants
extruding any crevice
or cavity.

I sit and listen to jazz
and become a relaxing smile.

I daydream
about living in a glass
of water
and smile.


Ghost (or Yūrei)
the Japanese have spirits
like in the reverb
in the static
in the stasis, flowing
adding one another up
to the highest level
producing an almost
real sound.

one of the moon killing
the sun.



he was tired of waiting
at the Terazza del caffé, looking
at the multistable perception
of the balcony.

he donned his apron to the chair
of his apartment
and splayed like a heroin star
to the floorboards.

the echo of his gasp and gush
passed through
his empty
both body and barista skills
to furnaces.

his absurd stance ended
in pyre he remembers.

he had a touch of midnight darkness.

the cobblestones turned
to streams,
guiding to the shadows
of his city
black with
melting windows.

he had to look out.


if I died tomorrow
what would you bring?
if a fire broke out
what would you remember?

I see diagrams
of the body
but I know that
my insides are as dark
as a bat’s cave.


along the slope with dad
the side of my foot hurt
while on the other side
while it calmed
the reeds stuck their
hands out of the still
to say hi.


a lot of birthdays are today
as a kid I thought every moment
was full
of every event that existed
funerals, grass cutting, getting dressed.

there were so many years before us
there are so many years before us.

I think:
a child has to comprehend
the bends, heartbreak, the beds of jazz
it has to remember what to do.


Just Knock It Out
Stan Getz gets going
so don’t fret friend
Charlie Parker is starker
thank I know

when they exhale
in exchange
the line between
whine and wine
becomes even darker.


for about six seconds
enough time to recognise a face
grandad followed the rhythm
of Jazz
one, two, three, four
on the sides of the cup
at lunch

he is a habit
with one glass and one seat
whereby he says good morning
and night
moments lasting seconds
remembered for the days I live.


A Note
the washing machine is open
hollow like an open circle
a closed circle can be
like a full stop
or it can just be the start of


we have a magnet, unused
in the top drawer
that say’s ‘David’s Europe’
it is rubber
once it hung on the fridge
when I was an only child.

David said no one can be alone anymore
David was just a disambiguation.

objects are a life of moving
not looked into entities
boil down.

I live supposedly
then I am done entertaining
contained in death
as atoms of a tree
as a once car park ticket machine.

What’s Left
feet pan out in front of my body
in the direction of heron
drawing arcs with it’s reflection
in the stream.
I stay for some clock hands
next to the binocular couple
eyes firm in my cabin head of shallow reeds.
the coast’s stone rendition of wind
bobs up in little peaks.
the gull Kamikaze
followed by the ventriloquial water
playing hide and seek with itself –
this is habitat,
as is the hanging basket and dead headed clumps of pink in hand.

turn the fledgling page
a corner for each limb.
I see the cat trying to scare the chickens
in the insomniac shed.
I closed the night away,
as most people do with intention.


April 20th 2017
you recreate the smile cast to me
downstairs, in the basement light of Accents, dowsed in tea aroma.
on the back of the photo reads
as though trying to sell someone
happiness, in matte.
you could fall as a door in earthquake
to the candle below.
it could burn, if I let it, from corner to your glittered eye,
taking what I feel to gale.

it gives me a solstice of the mind.
in vivid, I will always picture the sleeping woman I smile back to.
I watch the crow descend
to our Venice memory.


spines shelved in forest
the insect near them plants has a
nest not too suburbed for a
reaching hug of crown shyness.

my foot is huge beside that bug
and plant –
which can senesce with one swift boot.

a jiffy,
grove silence,
culminate into passages
how long until this is cultivated
to corpse roads?


the duvet’s stretch marks are showing
and so are the walls’ acne
the doors are wrinkled
and the ceiling is wounded.

the hiding faces of the window
cry as a midnight car drives by.
it echoes,
a painless aging.


By Day
the shadows that fall with day
fill the foundations of this house
as my eyes lie to my pillow.

al the light that once was
vanishes to sealed fridges, bulbs, wires –
all that energy
sapped like a tree.

does the darkness reside?
is it home?

I don’t see it’s routine
but I can feel that at night
it’s life is just as worrisome.


I used blue tack
to hang the 9 layers
of Hell
on my wall.

I drew it as a vortex
a continuum –
the thinkers in the clouds
humming to use prophecy.


warrior of the cliffs
lexical stress lifted you.
the beautiful dryads
watched in volumes of silence
how far is mist?

the abating blue
held on with surge,
caught in the spell of layers –
layers of
Thulean horizons.


To a degree
I can see the steeple
setting varies
morning to morning:
2 herons,
1 or 2 swans,
hemispheres of mystery,
floating homes,
stone walls,
I can see a peregrine
at window level
mouse watching, maybe train spotting.

when I leave the station
in reverse
it’s a despotic destination.


ages of fire rise in your face
Shunga, Uva, Berria
the eyes of purest grass
tuft uneven amid islands of green.

I can’t help this wind
and am glad
for the conquest of the seeds.
I’ll allow the spiders to hide in my room,
sense the world as a stump,
observing Persephone dead on.


why those boulders?
why on mowed grass?
noting excites me less
than stunted grass
that I can’t get lost in …

a chill breeze says

rescinded streams…

now all gleam across
the treeless space,
are transmogrified.


Three Years
spent in houses
you and I dream
of January’s to come
as the rapids obscure
-melancholic latitudes
-same sky
-changed hands

the wild geese will
to lapping comfort of kin
to kind stares –

rushes in
attaching pairs to flood
sculpted by the Lava,
the sea of Trees,
in bréife.


a resting lake near
knows meander, passer too
but forgets the sheaf.


the mountain waited
for fleeting newborn motion –
death was served rightly.


Hidden in Plane
crumpled leaf
how did you get inside the
you are dry and cracked
you underwent
your animism
delving in to the story
of footfall, of chicks coming of age, of the light tailing itself.

to the tenants of
An Dúlra
it is the ground’s keeper.


I can see they know not
through branches forbidden
steps upon dust
mice or woodlice
I’ve seen her die
beyond the headrest
and them in play with doll and dress
they come and go
the walking ghosts
I try to speak
but mumble acute sharp sighs.


a drink of beer on the Metro
some crisps, in American – chips
dressed as the desert
people looked at him
with backpack
they think, it looks, as though
he is not part of them.

the movement station passes
graffiti on the wall dated 2006
the tracks screeched
we jumped off this world
to become
giant fresh peaches and nectarines
waiting for breakfast
again, at the table,
where we met for
the beginning.


an empty window beckoned
to the smoking sun

adorned with a black railing,
bleached grey now,

inviting all sorts in –
visitors, invisible insects

which bite depending on
the side of the sleeper.

a toy windmill
was dull in complexion.

gusts were stolen
by the deadening homes.

they wave to each other
and to the dog too.

it patters down iron stairs
to it’s quarter of roam.

they barely move – all three,
as loneliness sets in.


Until Yesterday
in playing house with you,
as guests,
I realise how truly
beautiful you are in person.

I clowned you.
we took turns
putting the coffee on temporarily –
our mini moonscape.
I call you honey.

as we sat outside
the large rock,
held in place by the balcony,
could fall.
it would do more damage
than if I told you
I have thought of other women.


as you slept hundreds of feet
off the ground
of the clouds
to myself I said
who am I other than another body?

your watch read backwards
dreams flew in time
so as to create
our own minutia world.



as real as Zumurl
I latch onto it.

the people play in a zoo of choices.

words make me insane
the data sculptures
the Dada sepulchres.


Glass Press
there are many glasses in the cupboard
some have long necks
some are obtuse
and lack character
some are branded with ‘Bacardi, estd. 1862’
I like them ones.

some are coloured.

they smash at times
are moved forward
and back
some forgotten habitually
but every time I look
into the prisms of their faces
I see mine age.



I want to offer you a Sonrisa.
but an arrow must begin or end
with loving someone
even as shadows grip.
I have mongrel plans
of falling off of Basque,
foliated within the glance
of your eyes.


reflection is lagging
I see myself

imagine if the eyeless forms
of Greece
could watch and track
a petals flow, as it descends
sending Eidos into raving spin.


Before Us
your perfume rarely shows up
I smelled it once
while whispering to you
a small message.

it reminded me
of spotting you
unknown to your smell
across a room
full of many odors

on the small red bus
with the cheerful driver,
I felt odors
of worthlessness.


To Look Out
every time the thorny branch
outside my window
goes too far
in the breeze
I move quickly
thinking it was a person
strolling by

if that was three thousand
years ago
it could have been fatal.


piles of socks and not chosen clothes
make for a sun-dial
the slowly inaccurate telling of
it is time
to clean, to go to bed
the batteries used to be replaced
by mam
but it is time I grew up
and out
I’ll be out of here in no time.

she likes to keep doors closed
things in containers
as if time
weren’t a thing.


As Curtains Open
in the morning light touches your neck
from the window
the ecru and blue convinced me
we can step slowly
in a Picabia dream

I see eyes in the trees
your shelf life
of intransitive coves
I saw a sign above
the laundromat
I read it as saying
the finer frogs in life.


At The Shop
I get moments
where my fingers shiver
against one another
in a queue
I think I am in synonymy
but in hindsight
it’s not handled happily ever after

life is Warsaw
because not everyone tumbles fairly
down a grassy hill
at seven years of age.