For
Sunday Whirl:
Post-war Boom
Strange how they tend to revolve
(those apocalyptic tomes)
in literary circles
Thirteen unpublished novels
weak insipid frivolous
from preface to epilogue
seek speedy intervention
Suddenly out of the blue
the first promising inklings
(audible to an extent)
that their roots are taking hold
breaking old gnarled attitudes
like poppies after the war
For Sunday Whirl:
WISH YOU WERE HERE...
without a shadow of doubt
truth is stranger than fiction
so steel yourself for a shock...
as a martyr to your cause
your own childhood ambition
to be a holy seer
trapped you held you prisoner
to a secret you thought safe
until you heard the laughter
the scornful crazy mocking
that flawed your precious diamond
that took the shine right off it
DEPENDENTS
A poem with no name
Makes no sense at all to me
As a title is so vital...
If only because
It strips away a string
Of strictly false uncertainties
A speech in broken English
Soiled sheets, confusing signs
All connected, all infected...
And all because
Goblins drink from goblets
Served by gobshites doing lines
