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it always sneeks up. Surreal again in another country where I don't speak the language.

Here are some recent poems from Godzeenie (always mutating/in-progress).


won’t eat sins, can’t atone
for what you don’t have, labia
majora, give us a rolling egg, into
the sun-clotted bladder, we’re
all going to die, too late
for the shrunken urethra, ovem
medula, fucked
ass and alas now
let us lather supine
in drops
of urination, give
us a kiss, cherries &
heels, copulation
of shadows, between
bone and skin, yesterday
is all we have, time
is a diamond
in the dog’s ass, forsaken
for the sausage-shaped
oven, you can never choose
poetry over suicide, immermorial
judges on leather chairs,
for sake, for heaven, motored
away, Vroooooom, no one knows
the birds of the heavens, white
caps, flesh the distance, poking
around in rapture, bottomless
prayers in god’s bucket, nippers
at the heels of time, fountains
in the shit-caked park, atonement
is a financial building, sucked
snot now slick the walls
with sexsweat, meat-up and
stick IT out, ambient
bound with pubic hair, count
the overlaps and underlaps, all
skinned & sucking IT up


waking up armed and tangled, lamp-
posts and composts outside
the window, your sounds raised
my flag, nightcoughs and hiccups, saint
retreat, my nameless reversal complete, fish
it up, a laughing bandit
with square flowers, stubby fingers
in the air duct and not enough
sleeping pills, hope u’ll come too, aided
by exquisite cheese and wet tomaotes, black
beer floats in the sky, I’m a runaway frog
still sweating the lillypad, torso of iron &
a hankering for junge Menschen, there’s
turblulence in the slippery line, contact
high, tell me what you find, can you read
my mind, let me show you the ghost
in the boat, spell IT and sell IT, SASS &
pumps, the writing lies, behind the rim
of the clockface is a piece of dry celery


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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