Taking to the bed. Lingering.
Until a box carried you out.

I always hoped it would be quick;
a car crash, a stroke, the bull —

to spare you.

In a creepy cold attic
laughing and joking with Santa
lies the Red King.
Time is there too
and they play with the Moon
on creaky old floorboards —
the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny
even the Bogyman makes an appearance.  

For the length of the night
each share the others loss
in a support group for the bereaved.
When alarm clocks below wake the world,
they all vanish, leaving only Time
alone. Taking a shard
from the window pain
bleeds out into day.

She stands up, grabbing my attention
takes her handbag from off the chair
I follow her out for a cigarette
I didn’t smoke  
but started then.

Back between the noisy bottles and empty glasses
she causally informs me
what she did
in-front of the mirror
as a teenager. Regardless,
I’ll abort another potential child
onto the sheets tonight.

I tell her how I try
to right poetry,
she laughs; complains of the weather
then asks: would you like me to come with you home.
She adds with wink pun intended.

Yes, oh God yes.

When the morning came
she had vanished.
With the passing of a moon
an envelope arrived containing
a positive stick. And an ode —
Thanks for the passport,
Mr poet man.

1

I wasn’t suppose to go this far,
my stop was Cavan but I fell asleep
now I’m in Belfast. ****,
next bus tomorrow.
Lucky I never leave home without it.
A room in the Europa —
watching a P.C version of Family Guy
for ****-sake, it’s 2am.

Halfway late to the station
Clint Eastwood grabs me outside H.M.V
tells me: Gran Tournio is out on DVD.
As the machine gargles my receipt,
the newest member claiming
to be the true voice of Northern Ireland’s people
spoke at the station. I felt so lucky,

because I would, later, find you.


2

It's half past eight. In this housing estate,
Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work.
God I'm so ******. Spent the night watching
9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy.
I sent you a txt at five past one.
Wish I could have whispered it into your ear.
I know it will be hours before you wake.

The thing with having small arms —
it drives you to reach the top shelf.
The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon
composed The Dawn Chorus
to signal a day; glorious,
still far from over.  

When I stay over, you’re 9ft away —
alone in another room. May as well
be a mile past the edge of the universe.
You give me your jumper to take to bed,
to touch, to smell. And again,
as I am leaving home; as now —
sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining,
but I'm in love with you.


3

Anyone sitting here?

5 minutes ago
we were thrusting in the toilets.

Our clothes take the stance
of opposing forces. Our alibi.
Tongues become txts.
I always have credit when in character.

With you beside me
I would **** half the people here,  
friends and colleagues alike.
Beat them to death.
Cave in their heads with my fists,
stop when punching carpet —
just so the remaining half could see
how tender I can hold you.

Our eyes transfixed, unwilling
to focus on anything else —
the place could be burning down
and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact
that I can not read and you can not write.


4

It’s something truly fantastic,
secretly held love —
pure ****** in ****** veins.

We came out
in McDonagh’s Fish and Chip shop.
Held hands above the table.
And lips. Some of the dinners
couldn’t care. Others said Uh …
and finished off their Haggis.


5

Having spent the past 3 hours
in this 1950’s spider-infested
green and white Telecom Eireann phone-box,
I have concluded that
you were a miserable ***** towards the end.
The passing headlights, blinkered by the rain
decrease the potential of my thumb:
I have 2 more hours to wait —
giving me time to reflect.

Furthermore, if I'd my entire life to live over,
despite the 2 restraining orders
and my car being crushed into a cube,
the only thing I'd change:
has not changed since I first told you;
then we held each other asleep
as one breath.
I still cry at night.
Nine years I had that car.


6

Back with Bús Éireann
trying not to fall asleep.
Again.

Squish! … Squish! ... Squish! ... Squish!
Despite their many legs
caterpillars can not move
very fast.

Extending my sleeves past my frozen fingers,
it is -3 and handles of anything
get extremely bitter this time of year.
I fork in splinters of silage
#235 pokes her head out through the feeder.
I have plans for you Missy Moo —
well: our progeny.

Provided you’re in calf;
provided you stay in calf;
provided you calf down successfully;
provided it lives long enough to be killed.
If not, I’ll probably sell you
and buy an in-calf heifer instead.
No pressure.

I shoot dead dogs
who savage my flock.
250 pellets rip open
**** this little kids pet.
Sometimes, I have to use
another cartridge
to finish what Fluffy started.