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6.5 minute morning poem

Stage and Scream

Quit asking questions about the wine on the counter and take the potato from your pocket, peel, dice, splice. We are stuck between stage and scream. Like in a film with real milk we can’t get the sneezes out of our sleeves. Get outside with your fuel to burn something must break real soon. Blistered and barking up the wrong tree. Cat eats coyote. Rain in London and slowly developing archaic tendencies. I have yet to fall into the ice with the man who speaks into my left ear. There’s an existentialist fork in the futon and butter in the microwave leaking its fat all over the viewing window. Journey won’t end in time. She was flicking ash into the sink and reading the orbisphere. Perceptions sneak into the blue machine and the primal beats continue.


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Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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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…