Stories tagged neil-mccarthy-poetry

A Dying Art

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Suppose I was to suddenly get up from the table, race across the floor and hurl me through the single-paned window out onto the sidewalk. Grammatically, it's all wrong, but you're probably thinking about the window and …

Through windows dimly lit

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Burren-grey, the sky through sky lights is cigarette ash smashed across July.

The hills above St Florent

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Eighty years since we last leaned to the Right, we have already dug trenches in our head, built walls between skins and gods.

3 short poems (2)

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Clear as my conscience may be, you still haunt me as the brown settles to black sit there and recommence as if nothing had ever happened, your hands conducting the orchestra of your purity.

Downward Facing God

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Argus was on to me from the moment I unrolled my mat. He knew damn well I was in the wrong room, but he turned blind eyes.

Weidinger

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ghosts keeping watch to ensure no changes; their favoured tables safeguarded with a Reserviert card to ward off the living.

Mrs. De Florian looks through a north-facing window

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In this the delicate memory through which the birds haunt the light, she knows she was not wounded by a rush of blood, but rather by the flight.

"A bit less hot Tuesday"

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The faces of the sun remain unaltered across the seven day forecast. I am sweat-glued to a poem, looking up at the wall-mounted TV in a diner in the Valley

Growing older, uncomfortably

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Cafés just aren´t cool anymore unless they boast walls of exposed brick, pipes, half a chair nailed to the ceiling, mis-matched furniture back-breakingly uncomfortable.

Summer, 1995.

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I am no different to her, living seven days ahead of myself, looking forward to looking back, as we Irish do so fondly

A Release of Sorts

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For the new year, I´ve given up palm oil. Made shopping a whole lot harder. Damn orangutans tugging at my conscience.

Herd

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Had heard was the word of the week

- "You literally can´t believe the facts Tucker Carlson tells you. So say Fox´s lawyers."

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And in so saying, we shoot a glance at the calendar, a swear and a prayer escaping our lips simultaneously. The home stretch of the year that´s in it is an uphill fogbound chicane of black ice and oncoming trucks. Anyone with half a mind to jump in…