Friday, November 22, 2013


Sarajevo visions
informer ditches
any forgiveness
in these Monaghan hills?

Liver fatigue
no place to go
morphine desire
in these Monaghan hills

Country west violence
lake acid stillness
aching to drink
in these Monaghan hills

Bleakness and starkness
flashes of beauty
longing for love
in these Monaghan hills

Kavanagh how are you
barbs and booze
full of bravado
in these Monaghan hills

Negative equity
load a syringe
they're hanging from trees
in these Monaghan hills

Where's that dog?
not where he's wanted
roaming the fields
in these Monaghan hills

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Good Stock

It's funny being of the age
Where you meet people's sons
And end up washed
In waves
Of  bonhomie
Then you think back
To your parents
Going on
Ah he's from good stock
And you
You would spew
How fucking Nazi is that!

Friday, November 15, 2013

Sovereign Once Again

The Irish Times
Of Friday November 15th
Just told me
Over Annaghmakerrig tea
We'll be sovereign again
Sovereign again
So I took to the bike
Without precaution
Or credit
And I took to the hills
Where houses were boarded
Dogs barking
And pubs all closed
Village after village
Pubs were all closed.
And finally in Cootehill
In the county of Cavan
I sat for a pint
Where Charlie the taxi-man
Leaned forward
And said
A fierce amount had taken to the rope
Taken to the rope
Taken to the rope
Dangling from
Troika trees
And yet others had gone to the bottom of
Many the lake
Many the lake
Many the lake
So I swallowed my pint
Got back on my bike
Looked up the trees
Stared down the lakes
And cried out
At the top of my voice
Time after time after time again
For God's sake come back
Please Lord just come back
Do you all not know
We'll be sovereign again
Sovereign again
Get the fuck up
And out of those graves
We'll be ...
Sovereign Once Again

Thursday, November 14, 2013


Wind howl tranquillity
the sheer beauty
of Brendan Cleary's
poems of love
and death.

How he so deftly dances
between the two.
Then there he is in the kitchen
talking lost love and new bets
over fresh baked scones.

And I
I sit here alone.
Without a horse to ride.
Or a woman
to back.