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Prodigal Drift

Lapid maze-fault: something calls my name, tomotoe
on the table I wish you could pick me up operatically
hot/cold with critical speculation. I’ve met gravity
at every turn and

in America

very basic lightning to take
a different direction in comparison
to the primness and residual
limits of Victorian England.

This is the ramshackle of a half-life, unraveling my social fabric, putative
doubles and slavish copies of continual obessessions. It includes
old and new media in tune with the medium rather than merely
doing a descriptive job. How often is a cat seen on a public beach?
Graphic work has sunk within me forever with the vitality
of indifference. Fight experience, exist stance, buffalo stance.
Existence is a sneeze, a seizure. The symbols they can
fill you, the symbols they can kill you. If there is nothing
worth regreting might as well pack it in.



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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…