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from the small notebook (rough drafts)

From Who Sleeps with Who

There is no deciding what breaks. My eyes take forever to adjust. The hard fish. A Bielsko Biala summer. Hand in hand.

Immediate heartbreaking magical combinations of the fragmented.

Be bolder Sisyphus. What are we humming? Like bedded with unlike. What bed doth rock our bones?

A moan under the tables. Our suffering is your suffering. This Tropicana elevator parrot music at the local Westminster Starbucks.

Hard cums round. Try not to rush the passage from comedy to tragedy. Life does a fine job on its own.

I need to retire to another room. The so called LIVING room.

That pancreatic rabbit the fox sorrow outside the night window. To dance to slurp to . . . . . . .
That boyhood dew that mildewed ceiling.

Who runs through these twists? Night the marker doth.

The child grows like many over yon town into auto sound. Nay knave. Looping knave.

Assuage the villainous levels of digressions. O're the lock smell

THAT CLUBBED FISH

THAT CLUBBED FISH

A man in heat.

I can't find my horse.

This has everything to do with love.

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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…