If I were a trilobite...
well wouldn't that be great?

Well then, Jyuss swee Charlie, I suppose.
I hope your French is better than mine, dearest reader.  
And I hope you can draw better than me,
so Scribble on dearest reader.  
If all the world were paper, there would be no grip stronger than that of thumb and forefingers.  
If the world be paper, say with me, reader,
'Come the three corners of the word in arms,
and we shall shock them.'

The biggest union flag
stands one day longer,
atop the important building,
*****, for its mistress.

By communal agreement -
they rattle on another day -
or else for *******, and fear,
of the alternative thing.  

Down in the earth,
trains are sometimes delayed.
a commuter curse and swear,
a spectre passes Waterloo.

a hen
a doe
a tree
a catharsis
...
a Shay Healy
...
...
a knee
Ah Chew!

Not you - your parents.  
Ah yes.  In my new society, procreation will be illegal.  The earth will fall dormant.
Be nice.

I tried to get somewhere today.  
I got lost, ended up on Dolphin Road, went home.  
That felt bad.  The noise in my ears, the pressure in my head and an itch on my skin felt worse.
I am punished for the promiscuity of my ancestors.  
I could beat the dust into the other dust and role around there for a while.  
Might make me feel better.
Probably wouldn't.

That the amount of no right turn signs in Dublin's inner city is criminal.

Janus has a grand auld pair of heads:

One looks backwards on all the **** and grime, on the ****, on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.

The other looks forwards on all the **** and grime, on the ****, on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.

Phase the first

Will you direct me to Flannigan's ball?  
Flannigan's ball?  I cannot, what's that?
Wait now, or is it Lannigan's ball.
I know where that is, wait till I tell you.

Phase the second

Did you find it alright?
I did yeah.
And was it any good?
No, it was *****.

Fills you with majesty it does, this ****** place –
a few stars above.  
When light left this one, Napoleon walked the earth.  
This other, Julius Caesar.  
Wonderful -  The whole dreadful lot of it.  
A train approaches  – headlights and what have you,
colouring the sky pink, like everything else around here –
this strip of crust, this bay, these obscure designs of a people,
moralisers and chastisers and spell checkers breathing temperate breaths.  in and out all day for 160 ka, or there about.  
haughty on pretence – out there on July 26th 1807, the Rochdale sank with a pop, a bang and a glug,
The Prince of Wales wouldn’t be left behind. GLUG GLUG GLUG.  
and the night came over all funny just then,
fizzled into something else for a short while and returned to its current state.  
NOBODY NOTICED

Effing Bridge -
Effing City more like.

I'll drink a second cup of coffee.  
I'm just that bourgeois.

Think ye on what might have been,
and dwell on the reminiscence of a passing prosperity,
which as a flaxen cloth is wrung,
passes to the obscurity of memory.
So sink to the shadows - ye might have been great.
Sigh and divulge the substance of your bodies,
rise, turn and stare.  The land groans,
from the labour of many, rises and falls,
to the beat of begetting and dying, while the begotten die,
and the dead beget some more,
to ache their heads and till their beds,
and carry on for a little while longer.  
I sat today and listened to the Angelus on the radio -
because what else was there to do?

Be not overly dependant on government subsidies.

Mount Blank is beautiful, so I'm told.... and a poem follows

Shelley got away with it - I wouldn't.

Go on, file a paper,
make an imaginary notice of imaginary things,
and build on this a physical entity.  
See how deaf the masses will go,
from hearing the Latin tongue:
parchment, and paper,
tomes of dust and sand.  
Make a rule because you can,
and cement again the fetters,
our fathers and mothers cleft in twain.  

Ireland is still an English land,
while English law remains.  
Tories breed like rabbits,
so don't ask me what's wrong,
why you're unsatisfied with your oppression,
why enough is never enough,
till the colonial fetish is propagated,
into every heart and mind there,
worked deep into the furrows of our holy ground.  

Will you never have done?
Are you not content with your own misery,
without inflicting it on others?
Is it not enough to be in chains,
but to love and ****** those chains?
  
Oh mighty sculptors of our race,
chip chip away and see what's left.

So, Mr Nimoy,
Your time has finally come,
Your long and prosperous life is done,
And now your being typecast in a better place.
Nomore will you voyage through space,
Or sing those silly songs on youtube.
It was always your tube, Nimoy,
When you paced the bridge of the Enterprise.  
Now you've been beamed up for good,
And your first officer's log is closed.

There was a man,
Who had a horse;
the horse died,
so did the man

Some pomes stick to the wall like spaghetti,
And filch meaning from better poets.  
So take not the dower of my time,
And I'll make no obloquy against ye petty scriveners.

Here, all the words in the world,
they are no good to me,
more or less, they are useless,
that much is plain to see.  

These barren syllables mock me,
scorn at my delight,
profundity and beauty desert me,
in mouldering hours of night.

Here the gravity of my world,
certainty in despondency,
what a tall and terrible load,
the language of impotency.

Sometimes it might be useful,
to tread without purpose,
a dusty reminiscence,
and relieve idleness,
with the bathos of a burlesque.

To think of the plastered actors,
and actresses lit by torchlight,
or gas flame, or the new electric light,
which even though splendid,
cannot match the sun.  

And when followed down,
into the back rooms,
where the personalities hang,
all seem to slip away -
all the more for each time spent there.  

You might ask yourself,
is this the show they showed,
to the common punters,
to the boy with a ***** shirt,
and the auld one by the door.

Or is it just for me to see,
to rise and fall,
writhe and wane,
like the moon, my mistress,
who says after a long day:

Sit you by a fire,
and seek simple pleasures,
of simple rest and sleep,
so that we may, the next day,
on a past life think deep.

There was a man,
who had a book;
The book was bad,
so was the man.

I love the feel of a dusty parcan without a bulb,
or electrics, or anything at all except an empty shell,
In another life I lived alone, and kept lamps as pets.  
Birdies flying around my head, and cantatas doing what they do,
barndoors wagging, or shutters fluttering off to sleep in the moonlight,
with a single 50 degree spot to scare away the rats and mice.

Oh democracy, isn't it fun?  
It's alright, yeah.
Oh what fun!

There was a man,
He went to market;
the market was shut;
he went home.

There was a woman,
she is not in this poem.
But occupies this line and another,
nonetheless.

That's Ouzo,
Not Oozo,
Not Oozu,
I've had a few.

There was a man,
about whom it was said,
that he was near enough,
but could get no nearer.

When Hamlet was young,
All was good,
Elsinore was proud,
Hamlet was young,
Ophelia too.  

Now he is older,
Not everything is good,
Some things still are,
His uncle is his father in law,
This is not so good.  

Now he is dead,
Ophelia is dead,
Laertes is dead,
Gertrude is dead,
Cladius is dead,
Yorick... is dead,
but he was at the start,
so he doesn't count.  
Rosen... Guilden... dead
Old hamlet is dead,
Plonius is dead.
Horatio is alive;
can't imagine he's very happy,
because everyone else is dead.

Laurence Olivier is handsome,
he's dead too.

Arthur dear, don’t fret.

Papers, papers, get your papers.  

I have never been to the sea.  I always wanted to go to the sea.  

No, never since my husband died.  

Oh aye, a sight to behold.  

The rascals of Ballydrim out in force.  

The maid peept out the window.

The fryar and the nun.  

An old man is a bed full of bones.  

Is he not, is it not, is it not?

Rose is red and rose is white.  

New new nothing.  

Row well ye mariners.  

I have never seen the sea.  

The pauper and the layman, the priest and the scoundrel, all moving
with intent.  

Sometimes, fleetingly, never anything less.  

Profound, very, yes dreadfully profound.  

Labour in vaine.  

In great concentric circles about the time your husband died.  

Biting the bullets one by one, out on the green fields of Amerikay.  

Interest rates climbing on the national stew fund.  Spiralling into a new dawn of exoneration of traditional values.  

Gracie did all those things and more.  

And the quaker danced.

Rose is red and rose is red.  

For judge and jury.  

Very very far.

Quite near actually.  

Further than strictly possible.  

In all reason dear.  

75 miles from the sea.  Exactly.

And another.

And another.

AND another.  

Drawing to a conclusion.

Bliss.  

Seemingly.

Fleetingly.  

(pause)

Have at thy coat old woman!

I walked along the shore,
from the coal harbour to seapoint,
and the lands beyond:
Blackrock, Dollymount, Asphodel.

There I weighed a sufferance,
against the others there,
and found it, for all that it is,
comparable, equivalent.

I weighed my unmortal parts upon the winds,
North to Northeast, falling slowly,  
held my frailties, and failings on the tide,
and presented a show of petty wrongdoings,

Some done, some undone,
some imagined into being.  
I put mercy to sea, and waited
for the shipping forecast,

To tell me what I thought could be,
carry that far barque to regions far,
bring profit from those lands,
and make solvent my life.

WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
......
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.

Says one: Repent.

Says another: No.

Says one to another: Repent.  

Says another: No.

Says one: Repent.  

Says another: No.  

Says one: Repent.

Says another: I will not.  

Says one: Oh, alright then.  Have a nice day.

Living under them,
be nice.

Ah I get scared sometimes.  
Sometimes it is terrible being,
and to be and to be,
it is terrible.  

Oh I do repent me here my shred,
my little of lonely happiness,
which with syntax allowing,
here vanquish shed.  

Nay morn not, but read in accent,
and accent like Sligo people,
W.B. Yeast and the others,
whoever they may honey bee,

for this is Sligo Lament,
me in the lamenting of it,
for two more lines,
Sligo Lament.

Look Ye upon all that I have done,
and scorn me for for the resolutions I make.  
Laugh in the mornings when I rise from bed,
scorn me then and dwell on my predicament:
I shall waste another hour or two,
and in time solemnity takes hold,
as sea over land: hard rocks to pebbles,
pebbles to dust.  How feeble now the dust!
Look ye at the toiling men and women,  
at the grand facade of Custom House Quay;
This building they floated on a swamp.  
Turn ye and look once again at me,
Look ye upon all that I have done,
look at dust and ash of dust and earth.

Today was a day,
which was like other days in some regards,
but in others not.
Which is to say, that it was okay.
That was my day.

Tiocfaidh an Samhradh leis an lae,
is rachaidh na laethannta leis an Samhradh.

Pliny the somethingth's request for a title
put through the paces of a mincing machine
will form this, the entirety of my presentation,
to you, paid for by the flatulence tax.  

VAT fantastic.  I love the Government.

That which in day the brightest burns,
at night is seen to pale,
when sun and moon resolve in turns,
to light the merry earth below,
with spirit for the coming dawn.  
The faintest evanescent glow,
will light the path of one and all.  

The poet’s lamp is shepherd’s sun,
though barren it may seem,
bard and flocksman alike are won,
to reverence for the midnight star,
which though the tides each way may draw,
the greatest power it has by far,
is guidance in the darkest hour.

Today the Irish people witnessed an eclipse in their senses. The morning came over all queer.  Nobody noticed, except the king of bookworms in the book of Kells, and the mice in the Campanile.   I witnessed the eclipse from a windowless room on the 4th floor of the Arts block.  Edmund Spenser's poem, The Faerie Queene,  shall henceforth be named, Long ****, by jury of 5 English Lit. Students and a Lecturer.  Also, Sinn Fein plans to build Jerusalem in Ireland's green and pleasant land.  

Lines written last night over a cup of sugary tea in a public house in North Dublin.

Oh FIE!

lalalalalalala

No, no, no.

la la la

No, wrong.  

The Lee Lang Night and Weep m'dear, the lee lang night and weep.

Better, try again.  

Lalalalalala.*

Superb.

Said the Actress to the Bishop, something very rude.

It is raised a corpulent Spirit,
dangling it legs suggestively,
over the abyss of national identity,
an ideological state apparatus, BANG!

Mind the gap of danger when boarding and alighting trains.

You transgress

I transgress?

You transgress

No, you transgress.  I have stuck to the brief.

You have not adhered

Have not adhered?  I adhere in every direction.  I have adhered left, right, up, down, and occasionally in circles.  

Oxford comma or no Oxford comma?

Twice the usual number

You rat

YOU rat

You fool

YOU fool

you transgress

I went to Dalkey Island in a 14 foot boat,
and there stood on a granite slab,
which formed the cap of a granite wall
built by the colonial administration.  
I saw the tracks where the canons used to be and pivot,
and the collapsed vaults of the officer's quarters,
and the fire they had there, in the fire place.  

I pronounced the words,

'Come at me, Napoleon,'

from the cradle of a big gun,
and provoked the dead man's spirit,
dispersed throughout the seas,
to later wet my socks
on the slip in Bullock Harbour.

My mind is silting up,
which is rarely helpful.

....And that auld triacontrahedron went jingle-jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal....

They replaced it with a thing.  
It's called the N6.