Skip to main content


here comes the wind
the blinds clacking

like stuck penguins
I’m sleeping with

a flower vender
on a moped

with a bell from hell
let's part the hood

and ride
our Hegelian brides

with the wicked smiles of those who jerk
off and off

in solid white cloudy tissues
and the ashes of Irish mermaids, yep, them

i clog along
in deer hoofs

my thursdays
into your weekends

silk hair expiring at
yr ankles with

a sea map between

yr voice cracks
like a piano you keep
moving we’re long

water boils in the clouds
of the sick

i run on beams
a baptismal dish
when i’m smiling
my jaw turns to stone
heft yr own hungry

dawn’s kingdom
maketh me

beside the rancid

swift with my

my tawny


I danced myself
a tomb

a goat two goats
stood on the rocks

my hand raised


Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

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.

By Robert Archambeau

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…