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fourth draft


the animals on a very bright day offer professions of good will. one month ago, near the shores of the Bosphorus, i slept on a park bench then ate a potato. the Bosphorus is not an empty background. this gut kicks or rather there is a stranger at the door and the stranger is a strangler. i found grieving in the grass and constantly stain the curtains. i found a pervert in my throat. What is attached to a dignified demeanor? If you are too comfortable with a voice do not employ it. The ships are not the waves and vice versa.

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

all the people that we’ve _______ and all the people that we’ve_______

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

the years flash.

what goes thin goes sure.

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

freckles on the shoreline.

my phone refuses to sing.


well, then, for my part, a lover distinguishes movement from motion. but i ask you what is the motion of a lover if not an apology for death. do you think me sheep? very well then. i am sheep. my nose tweaks inside every description. i’ve been pressed into a slow cooker. this grass is not dry and therefore i must keep moving. yes, indeed, you may even say i fickle myself sick. conceptions are not contraceptions.


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Another Ireland: Part Two
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…