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it is pleasant to breathe after strangulation

it is pleasant to clink a wishbottle against yr yellowing teeth

it is pleasant to tie boredom to the bed and whip the shit out of it

it is pleasant to walk on cold ground with defective spaces in yr mind

it is pleasant to dance in the shark moonlight with a rat and two Polish sausages

it is pleasant to shit sticks and wipe snot from your wordtrap

it is pleasant to count the percentage of satisfactory intercourses

it is pleasant to cough up new wax, boogers, and phlegm


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…