I want to say you’re a genius
But I don’t know
if that much is true.
I want to give to you
and take and take and take.

I want you to kiss and kiss
and kiss me ‘till the pools
of your kisses make a big
Lake on the nape of my neck.
So that I actually have to check
that I’m not dreaming (and
This isn’t the part where
Johnny Depp gets in a brawl before
suggesting an impromptu sex scene.)


I want you to continue
to be as utterly improbable
As you are.

I want my parents to hate your politics
and your rogue facial hair.
I want you to think my hair is too long.
My room is too messy.

I want you  to dance with me
Till we are nothing but bodies
Blanketing each other
From bare air.

I want to match every inch
of your eyes and back.
I want to look at you
And see right through.

You’re not my first
you’re not my last
but you’re somewhere
In between.
And that’s good enough for me


And maybe you’re no more
Than a rip-off of some
rom-com scene I’ve seen
but forgotten.
But somewhere in my day
you put a little part of a dream.
(And I had day dreams before
Miley Cyrus was even weaned)

So come on and put the beam
back in my round white moon;
Buy me big sunflowers
Kiss me on top of tall towers

Go on-be as thoughtful as you seem.
I want to say you’re a genius
Make sure it’s not just a dream.

I
You don’t know what love is
But you know how to bring it out in me.
And you’re numb enough to not even
notice, that this love’s going nowhere.

And we’ll just end up a car wreck.
Waking up with bruises and purses

I can’t locate and a terrible thirst.
You thumbing a lift back home.

As I stumble through the scrap
looking for a bus fare.

II
So to hell with the hope of  certainty.
Grab this moment by the shoulders
Breathe in every last crippling breath.
Give me the insatiable power
To dance with the incongruous and love it.
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that
stinks the best.  The oldest whiskey.
Wine from the smallest vineyard in the
Backarse of Sicily where some little man
in a tweed cap picks every grape by hand.
using the same fingers to squeeze them as
he does to wipe the stale sweat from his brow.
Give me a duvet made from
Flamingo feathers and let the pink
Shadows peek through the inexpensive
Silk sheets of a Sunday morning.
Give me a lover who lifts me on
the table like that Kenco Milicano
ad times ten. Before they spill the coffee.

I want to lose myself in the arms of a stranger
‘Till I can’t see straight.
I want a lover I don’t have to love.

I want to be the one thumbing a lift
back home in the morning.
I want to be numb enough to not notice
that this love’s going nowhere.
But still be able to smell the coffee.
You don’t know what love is.
But you know how to bring it out in me.

Drunk. On the train.
And you are sober.
You are always sober.

And your steady head
hits the carpet rest.
As we bob along.

And you expect me not
to notice you have no idea
what I’m thinking.

Or that I’m drunk. Because
you just don’t get why I like
people who talk as well as listen.

Or because I’m hoping that you’ll
turn into someone who knows
what it’s like to be drunk.

On a train.

This morning having breakfast
I had an overwhelming urge to sob out loud.
To throw the spoon on the table,
Drop my yoghurt pot to the ground,
Let my knees weaken and my body collapse.
To lose myself in an unapologetic anarchy of aching.

We were out of order, not broken.

I sat amidst old files, broken biros
And the remains of last night’s dinner.
Dressed in pure black and red.
News played on from the radio
By the fridge as I contemplated
My new found incompetence in the art of crying.
My ambiguous aptitude in the art of apathy.
I had an overwhelming urge to sob out loud.


We were out of order, not broken.

I

He’s a Mellon,
In a family of Mellons
of the ‘Gods make their own importance’
kind of Mellons.
In a world where what matters most
is how you see yourself,
You see yourself as
Bold.
Strong.
Important.

5’3m barely a hair on your head
you shine. Stand out.
Granny Mellon and Magilligan
You say, as you break red lights,
steal rogue grapes in the grocers
flirt with cashiers at Tesco for a deal.

An anarchist in a townland of
cattle, bogland and Sunday mass.
Quoting Karl Marx as I sit wide-eyed
at the breakfast table, spilling milk
From my cereal bowl.

14, Hormones bursting at the scenes,
Squuezing into mini skirts
Smudging eyeshadow on my cheeks.
You sit back I the kitchen
Look up and say;
‘would ya not just put on a paira jeans?’

17. Sullen.  Seeping with grief
from the latest heartbreak,
shaping a hole in my pillow.
Clung. Like a mole under a willow
Where fine tree leaves hung.
You come to me and say
‘You have majesty of your own kingdom.’
But I’m not a princess,
not ‘Your little princess’ as others would say.
You’re a Sorcha, and that’s worth more grace
than any creature can take.

Age 4. Can’t sleep.
You swoop me up to the window
In your aeroplane arms.
Palms clasped on my chest.
Goodnight Ballyhackett
Goodnight World.
Sorcha and Daddy reporting.

Your eldest in the court of law.
The daughter of an outlaw, you saw.
Still call the police the pigs,
Scorn poppies on the news and insist
on seeing TnaG not knowing a word.

15. test the next day. Stumble down the stairs
grazing through the haze of misclarity.
You, in a midst of smoke, crossword.
Ceili house on the radio, and a mug of tea.

17. Lights cast shadows on the clubhouse,
Tyres ripple the stones.
I climb into the car, smoky eyes
Working on each syllabyle of broken speech.
‘nothing like a few jars to lift the spirit,’
Eyes on the road as we crawl along the coast
To Ballyhackett.
Goodnight Ballyhackett.
Goodnight World.
Sorcha and Daddy reporting.


Discos and drama compeititons
Musicals and cinema trips.
Eyes on the road.
You drive me still.
Ceili house on the radio.

II

Shopping bags engraving my hand-palms,
As I march to the car of a Saturday.
You drive me still.
hunting for bargains in the supermarkets,
Flirting with cashiers or anyone that’ll do.
I have majesty of my own kingdom.
I’m a Mellon in a family of Mellons.

And I call you up of a Sunday,
up on the table fixing lightbulbs.
‘Your mother’s badgering me here.’
As I hear report of a rogue green coat
and badly received curses.

You empty the dishwasher with intricate style
Yet go to town in garden hats, that aul’ green jacket,
and workers boots.

Fortune favours the brave you say.
You are brave.
You are bold.
You are strong.
You are important.
Goodnight world.
Sorcha reporting

I trundled to trim
The basking thorn bush:
Its bellowing brances,
Twisting, gaping arms
Rooted legs, Green lashes
Crimpled locks.

Seize me into
Your thorny grip
And prickle my
Meaty heart
'Till it oozes green

I prune you,
And finger my hair
As It hangs, Cut and alone
As my meaty heart

Your name
Is built in concrete blocks
In my wooden head.

You used
Cement, to slap your scent
On each hard crack.
You built a pefect getaway
Of wood and Block

For me to getaway
Since you gotaway.
I rummage in the rubble
Of my bitter ash
Make men out of sawdust,
Rubble of cement.

The buzzing broken light
Ticks and spits above my head
As i stack and shelve the memories
Of our foundation.

Rubble rumbles
and pushes through my slippered feet.
Glaring sun pokes through glass
Above my head as I compose
A moonless route home.

The signposts on my street
Are black and blackened
In the empty sky
But I grumble home from work
and make a rhubarb pie.

I am a lonely painter,
I take brush to page
And with each day I create.
I make a blank spot speak,
Give it a tongue,
A life of it's own.

I am a lonely painter,
my path is the final piece.
I spend so much of my day
brush in hand.
Othertimes I sit and stare,
make soup that's bland.

I am a lonely painter.
This will be my masterpiece.
I will record every rake of pain,
remember ebb and flow
Of the sea, breath, lids and lips.

I am a lonely painter
Every day I stain page
With day gone wrong.
And when I die and go
to my grave, men in
Tall hats will stand in
Museums. Stare at me
and see days gone bad.

They'll snap me up,
put me in their parlour,
look at me as they sip
wine from Chile, and
chuckle with comrades
whose names are longer
than the legs of
a lonely painter.

I am a lonely painter.
Look at my tools.
I wake, I paint.
I will paint 'till
the day I die, and am found
in a pile of paint,
colour and pages gone bad
with the juice of my cells.

I am a lonely painter.
I will create a masterpiece.
Work it, love it, live it.
Aching, for someone to
know what life is like when
you're a lonely painter.

I will feature in arts reviews.
They'll bury me with my brush,
and the horse hair will
tickle my chin under the heavy
throne of soil and earthworms.

The security guard will
turn off the lights,
lock up the door and night
will fall on the colours and lines
I signed trying to figure out
what it's like to be
a lonely painter,
like me.

For Jill

Black is the colour
of my true love’s hair
It’s curly-come-kinky
but I don’t care her
hair’s kinky.
her hair is black
& I don’t need her to be
kinky,
or have
l
o
n
g
bronzed legs, or
wear a dress that’s
slinky.
maybe’s she’s not
so bootylicious?
but oh her homemade wedges
are superdelicious!
She writes texts that are
Short.
Sometimes snappy.
And she is there to snap me
out of it when the day is long
and (yeah) even I just…
snap!

she can give advice on tap,
never wears too much slap
she lets her eyebrows
do all the chat.

I know when she’s angry.
She’s not always patient.
And I don’t know if I know
what her eyes say,
or their colour.
Maybe,
Black is the colour of my true loves eyes?

But I do know she
Takes me in all my glory,
all my un-glory.
She is my sound
and my fury.

Though she’s just a girl
whose kinky-come-curly
whose legs are often hairy.

She gives hugs tighter
Than a corset’s arm.
Mellownessssssssssss
is just part of her, charm.

I don’t know what
cupsize she is.
But she makes
A sweet cup of tea-
without any sugar.

She wears big rings of funny shapes,
And she makes funny shapes on the dance flo’,
Fo sho’ she is dark and deep.
and sometimes her nails even
match her lips.
Her eyes.
her hair-
Black is the colour of my true loves hair.

She is.
True.
Love.

You can have sex with anyone,
but with whom can you sleep?

And the
fine tree branches
on the tips
of your fingers
touched mined.

On the train.
Shut eye.
Partially blind.
Stir in time,
just to check,
your body's
still beside mine.
Maybe our feet
are intertwined?

You can have sex with anyone
but with whom can you sleep?

When I was a child.
I slept, door open.
Shut eye.
Defined by the homely moan;
muffled midnight radio,
slow steps up the stairs.

You can have sex with anyone,
but with whom can you sleep?

Orange glow from the corridor
Steady chime of kitchen cutlery.
When I was a child I slept with
the door open.
Shut eye.

Orange glow from the streetlights.
Cabin door closed.
I reach out to touch your fingertips.
You turn, drop lids.

You can have sex with anyone
but with whom can you sleep?

my chest is pert,
and the muscles in my back are plucked upright.
I care about my posture now,
and the shadow of that stray hair on my skin,
the way my lips curve matter now,
the brush of my thighs when i walk,
the hook of my shoulder where a bag hands,
the smell of scent circles my skin.

the strings in my neck now,
how they tighten then crop.
the way my lips curve round the shiney steel of this fork.
the tickles along the torso of my tongue now
and i swallow some silken strings of spaghetti
you made for me.

the ceramic curves of the plate in the palm of my hand now,
and the fuzzy feeling from the fur on your fingers.
the hard bones of your knee cap then
the fleshy fat of your upper thigh.
the smooth, hard brass of your belt now,
and the slick slack back of its releasse.
the sturdy shuffle of your five fingers
under my skirt.
the shadows of your skin on the soft cushion of my shape.

the scratch of your teeth at my shirt now,
the remnants of chemical flower scent,
and memories of big round bottles in long aisles now.
your sandpaper tongues scratches now,
and smoothes the bristles of my skin,
and it stretches so far now, it almost reaches within.

the hair springing from your scalp plays with my hands now;
and your hair's just like a glove now;
my fingers slide beneath.
and you, you're my medicine now;
the taste of your tongue, and your digging teeth.

You are my parachute
I shoot para tu.
You embrace the
ripples of my golden kisses
the husky flutter of your
flapping sail
as the rhythm of passing
feathers flying by.

Maybe rainfall as
my maybe tears slide down
your strong skin.
Water off a duck’s back.
Rain off my parachute.
Sweat off my brow…
Struck off!

and I shoot then strike
para tu, my parachute.
Striking off the clouds
Tick by tick with a sail so slick
Flying through the sky
my parachute keeping me high.

Táim baite
i lochán lán leat
(M’uisce beatha)
l’uisce na bhfiacla
le do dheora caointe
le hallas do mhalaí.

Samhlaím ag snámh.
ach;

cuireann an íota cigilt orm mar
snéas cnámh éisc i mo scornach.

Ach is feoilséantóir mé agus…
de nádúr an éisc an snámh?

Warm sultry night in Ballyhackett:
Mum is foraging in the fridge
for items of food for her luncheon hamper;
so far so good!
Did I see a mackrel’s tale sticking out of her basket?

A waft of smoke rises from the cave of the corner,
slips through the soft smell of subtle larger.

And so life goes on in its perfect simplicity,
and the occasional nod of dad’s
‘Grosse Ile’ fishers cap
At the rare crossword clue to stump him.
Ryan Tubridy, an gnáth nuachtain,
a long slow sip of sweet milk.

I think of you as you flurry about your wee ways,
With a rash bowl of porridge and clipping
Over the lane with your straw bag in a haze.

And when you return, I imagine you at dusklight,
Pecking in the sun-room; Rubbing your palms
With a quick break for the range and a

Retreat to a fleece, before you
Clump up the stairs in your pink gown.
Tired eyes, clasping a list of things to do.

And i think of your hand-lotion
Snug in the front pocket of the car.
As you call me to say goodnight,

And I close my heavy door,
I just about sense your hugging waft
Washed up on my bed-shore.

I

Side street at lunch time and coffee cup. Steaming to be drank.

There are times, when i snuggle into silence.

And always, it is you as my slumber song.

You come to me, when the lights have dimmed, wheels stilled, beds brimmed, shoes unfilled.

When my toes twist in sleeplessness or my eyes twinkle in dewfall.

There are times, when I snuggle into silence

That you fill me-pour out, and into me…like a brew.

Piping hot, and new.

There are times, when the veil falls on the world

Or mist on a faceless crowd that there is you.

And I see your name on a passing van.

The sure, familiar curves painted clear as iced vodka.

You are infinity away, winding around the curves of your street-corners.

Under the sky over my head.

II

And sometimes,

Just sometimes,

I consider the hunch in your neck

As you mix your favourite records,

The crease in your brow as you try then…release

A smile of satisfaction; a kiss on the cheek, your fingertip brushes my earlobe.

Sometimes,

Really, only sometimes

I remember your look.

The mist on your eyes when you smoked too much.

The roll back in your head, and you roll back ;

Slacked shoulders slumped on the sofa.

A solitary munch of a crisp, I dig my wooly socks under your legs.

You are my cave

As you daze and i am alone on another Friday night with a flashing romcom

And your corpse to share a glimpse between laughs.

And sometimes,

Just sometimes,

I remember your turtle back hunch

As i prop you up with a knowing sigh

En route to the bathroom, and look back

Just to check you’re still there (with your turtle back.)

Hands in pocket, crotch in socket,

You glance across a crowded bar. CCTV.

Spring back when you see

Anything I might be.

Sometimes,

Maybe sometimes,

I remember the way you’d cup me up.

Your torso a giant’s palm as I hung on you.

You circled me, rounded me round and round.

You complete me.

Sometimes,

Always sometimes,

I remember the twitch in your left ear

When you hear a sexy song and raise your eyebrow

To whisper in my ear (thetickleofyoursoundonmyskin!!)

Tongue on tiny bones of sound-

You turned me around

III

And we left

Hand-onhip-onchest-onthigh.

Lips-onlid-onback-oneye.

You smuggled me into your world

Smothered me with the you

That gives a cheeky grin on a Sunday morning

And turns to a country station  to make me lie

In the plane of our bed

And pretend the sky is red.

The you that rests me on your shoulders

Carries me through the night, just so i can see

That after darkness there is light.

IV

And I wonder if you know that a dawn we were alone.

On your back, I memorised your every bone.

I traced every cell to the core,

I led each vein through my door,

I stitched every stem with a shed of my skin,

Bandaged every tear with a lock of my hair.

And I wonder if you know that the day off the bus

You bought me tea and we sat by the sea with

The stars as our chandeliers and you told me

To take the moon as my balloon.

I plugged my earphones into your veins.

Socket to socket. Snug.

I heard your every note.

Dum, de dum, de dum.

I tapped my feet against the pier.

Dum, de dum, de dum.

And un-knotted my school tie,

You unravelled my plaits,

Unbuttoned my blouse.

Dum, de dum, de dum.

V

And your mouth on my ear-bones.

My tiny drums of sound play with your tongue

As you speak I drum drum drum.

Our hearts…de dum, de dum, de dum.

December.

My head stuck to the plastic pane.

I swoop through, into you.

Mo thearmann agus mo sanctóir.

Twinkling lights,

From icy-fingers by ovens

Stirring up an often broth.

Suited salesman tutting

At the six news.

New mothers bustling

Past buskers on Grafton St.

It’s duskfall in Dublin.

I am home.

Little feet snug into patented high heels
as I clip clop; she fixes my hair with a clip
to the chug-chug of white wine
and the slap slap of the bass
beat playing by the fire
as we slap slap on sallow skin.

There is a flash from the dead computer
and the wine is juice; a silver liquid
on silver teeth, silver smiles.
This night is just silver.
And my earrings are too long, you say,
they don't match, but the silvers good
you say; it brings out the shine in my hair,
(with raised brow in your head)

Rose-tinted memories and with the know
that some day, in a few years in some
far off bar on a hill this night might be
talked about in silver tinted shades.
And so maybe we have wine goggles,
but boy, this night is beautiful,
and we smell like spring

as we walk along; 3 strong,
knocking back whistling wolf-men
with a stride, sharing one big
bottle of wine with some strange
spanairds with big smiles.
This night is grand and
the city lights are our stars.

We stride on, 3 strong,
Pass girls in the snow with naked legs,
a couple with cross arms and eyes.
There is snow now, on the ends of our nose,
on the tips of our mits.
She stops to talk to a man on the street,
with holes in his feet, and all he has
is a bag to sleep, and yes we might smile
at your baby rage but we know when
you talk like that, it beats you deep.

Walking on, 3-strong in the snug of our hook,
and I guess we know with no words just snow,
when we're 3-strong, we'll never be that alone.

And I can't but hope as we clop through the frost,
gripping each other for sweet sweet life
that the silver streaked streets will remember our name,
the tune of our laughs, the shadow of skirt swish and the way
the world just seemed to make sense, in the snow,
that saturday night.

I
Sat at the back of musty irish dancing halls
big women smelling of perfume
bustling by my side.
and you, you would make a plait for me,
all my eager strands worked into one.

Your fat fatherly fingers
gorrilla-ed by big black hairs
twisted and tamed
the mane of my hair to one,
a single solitary lock. my plait.

You stood out there;
the small man with the cap
at the back, his daughter,
the one with the plait.
Among a cyclone
of blonde wigs
and blusher brushes
You stood strong.

"Stand tall"
You told me.
And I felt the tap
of our plait
at the small of my back.
and so all the other girls had
glitter nails and bouncing curls
and I, a single plait.

Reeling out familiar steps
with an awkward style
under your faraway smile
From the back of the musty hall
where you stood tall.

II
And still tonight
I feel the flap of my plait
in the small of my back,
as moonfall taps at the window.

I am striding through the streets of my twenties,
simmering spuds and frying onions
in the hollow of our evening.
I put some buns in the oven.
And now, I look to you for
Tonight; we will plait.

My leg, your leg,
a golden lace.

My lash, your lash,
a silken sash

We weave a plaited mark
on the dim of this dark.
Limb on limb,
Skin on skin.

You, I, the unspoken,
A holy trinity in time.
Your body, my body,
and whatever body
let our bodies be one.

Breast on chest
Weaved as one,
Dear plait,
are you not made by
the fat fingers of my father no more?

I can just about see the lines
of when the three become one.
You're stuck on me, I'm snuck in you,
between dewfall, and stardust,
sweat scent and stains.

III
Tomorrow, we'll wake up
with bellies full of onion soup
I'll twitch my toes
you'll open your eyes
and stretch my arms out wide.

We'll rise as one,
you'll pat my tum
and say "y'know
when your belly's
full of babies,
mine'll still be full of rum."

But then you cook me eggs
and let me rest on your chest
as time ticks away at the day.
And you grab every strand in
the strength of your palm
and wrap my hair into weaves.

Three full fat strands
under a sanctimonous band
in the perfect trinity of our plait.