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newport pagnell (U.K.)

birds everywhere. at least twelve new songs. clock ticking. slugs nestled into mud puddles. Lush, in short.

i have applied to a mad amount of jobs, it is the system, my tick, oversaturate then choose via exhaustion or luck.

just want a bit of peace, a piece, small piece, of the pie without getting sucked in, labour, free economy, marketing and pr and . . . and . . . it's ok to work in business, in that world, just so long as i have mental space, mental spaces, for my writing.

art is a re-arrangement, a reshuffling. i write to see, or i write instrumentally, and seeing requires mining and mining requires minding the gaps and the gaps contain blocked energies and . . . well . . . unblocking blocked energies can get downright messy.

I'm looking at language now, how, it creates, now how i can recreate and how now
in this world of false limits and limitless faults

how i can choose

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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.

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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…