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listening to Tim Hecker and this came out . . .


I have been pre-occupied in the hobhouse. Consisting of a white kilt and kettle drums beating we are forming a new delightful spectacle. But for who? I have slept on my rectum. A man very fat and not very tall with a fine face is repairing the highways. The women here are lonesome too. I am among the most war-like subjects of the Sultan. The Greeks have called on the saints. The see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed. Fletcher has taken the protons of happiness. A licking horse. A bolt of sick neckties. I refuse to wear a suit. Ears and hands are hazards. The bark on the animation tree is forming a painting. I’m writing in a shady room of the English consul.

My eyes were hurt by the light. Or crying. They are cruel but not treacherous. Our next conversation was of war and traveling. Between continents and between loves I’m working with two blunt pencils. What will become of the horses in Van? The windmills are squeezed against the mountains. A bright fluid circulates among the soldiers. They are roasting rebels in the snuffbox. I’m carrying a flagpole without a flag. The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head. A hand on the breast. Heat and vermin lie in the cottage. 
Today I am sporting a painted complexion
Today I am a tapestry
Today I am a rouged dowager
After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge I have come out from refuge of Jehol, a fortified town, in a wild and rugged mountain pass. I have covered my face with white cake make-up and placed patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Grandmother Jia has cut the cards. 


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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…