Saturday, May 20, 2006


Dear Reader

If this is your first time on this site, welcome, and please, do not think the poetry below is all I am about. The example here is in a form called L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, or Langpo. This is basically the cutting edge of avant garde and can be traced to one man, Charles Bernstein, who I have spun poems with in Dublin. That's the top and bottom of it. One gifted genius is all it takes to start an Art movement.

I also write in other forms from slam, strict metrical, open-field and basically any genre going. Many poets stick to one, but the more the merrier I say.

The whole idea with Langpo is to be a bit disruptive with the lingo, so take it nice and slow and if you get bored, flip down to the next piece and read how I got my black eye for Ireland.



and pluck comfort bones banal?

Wanna dilineate reality's cultural force
in an ASBO scribble

encrypt an electronic watermark
through the continuum's digital blueprint
and write with the ink of memory?

step across the divide
tailor the mind
and cut to a schoolyard platform.

a violent memory train chugs love in

silence stops
      sound drops
and joy is a fight
attractively flesh
in the sight of deja vous

as sound shuffling through the seal of surface
fills a magic carriage with fresh-right raindrops
     unbreaking to forgive

Heard it before?

Reason crashing out in a journey to the underworld

ghosts that disappear once light is shone

    cute gods sensing leather hell
      in a milk-break lunchtime

who always remember Morley V Mad Ox

each headbutting the little brick
  basin after lunch had settled
when one chipped the chewers in his gob
as his skull crashed onto a white bog rim?

Youth's unintentional masterstroke
was stout shunted schoolkids
  and the guards of entry
were wild coarse cognizant and weightless

convincingly set aside
like a congress of persuasive conmen
caught up in tossing back whisky
at a marquee saloon of weekend mayhem
all at sea and misunderstanding


the inconsequent watch-word
passing through the spirit fallow
and pastured now
in the omniscient realm

know all
lacking in taste
with ski-boots tailored by Nico

urban footwear
worn by a Shepards Bush maestro.

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