generic serif;”>Blur

shop serif;”>Play me some feverish music

and kiss me oh-so-sweetly;

Rolling waves of subtle sensuousness.

A flurry of staccato pulse beats

and hot soft lips. 



Lines, circles, squares, tableaux,




Extreme light

Dancing across imaginary boundaries

And intersecting with luminous heartfelt splodges;


Mysterious intergalactic shifts of natural rhythms

Forged into a new dawn backwards

Through incoherent spaces;


Burning blue violets

In a wave of overwhelming darkness that circles

And hovers unconditionally over a rumbling facade;


Remarkable escapades in learning, in unlearning,

Dripping in a haphazard manner

Into pools of strange metals;


Weighted deftness

Slipping intermittently between gauges,

Lofted and dropped in broken parameters – outside;


Deja vu angles

Crossed with diverse riddles in a precise manner,

Overlapping and underlapping;


Reduced masses of compressed air

Redirected through prisms of white heat

Evaporating in black circles;


Patterned nowheres

Gliding fabulously, effortlessly, past hoops of wild fire,

Reddened with the knowledge of birth;


Untouched vertical lines

Fight for position

With parallel right angles.

Michael Donohue


Wandering through jagged trees:

Twisted, angular, wound like corkscrews and

Beautiful. Weaving through the cold air

Jagged in your throat.

A curl of fingers in the sleeves of a coat,

and a bird,


Flits, and flits again,

Searching for an ease of

Conscious living.


Dewdrops like beaded crystals

Are strewn among the hoary frosts.

Wait, quivering and terrified

To be bound in the encroaching

Mass of stillness.

Their quivering slowed, their eyes lethargic,

To wait once more

For the release of photons,

A transfer of energy

And a re-instilled fear of


I stomp through

Taking pictures,

Avoiding the frosts for the sake of my toes.

Champing and steaming,

Releasing frost bait

And unaware of that symmetry.

The fragile tank of air,

Our reserve, stirs fretfully

As I photograph my mother.

Turned away, her arms outstretched;

A scarecrow with nothing to scare,

Embracing the tank

That stirs fretfully.


I watch as she grows smaller

Through my lens,

Trees either side growing,

Aspiring upwards.

Draped in signs of the

Purity of the air

That stirs fretfully.

Maybe I should not be there.


Maybe I should not be here,

Disturbing the air

Already disturbed

By a child,


Making ripples in a goldfish bowl.

I look to calm with my camera;

To create stillness with a frame.

To capture a moment

Between two movements

Or to show what would otherwise not be seen

By those who are not me.

Liv Carrington



more and more

who I am

what makes

me tick


to expand

and breathing

to calm

a thundering heart

still wary of


But I do

not want





To realise

I am scared

of what?

to realise I

am scared

but I do not

have to be

Fear’s all in the mind

 As Mr. Tweedy

from Chicken Run

was always reminded

It’s all in your head”

(even though he was wrong)



Every now and again I dream about my father. We walk up tall hills and down deep valleys, through forests and fields which cover the earth like skin. The air is cold, stingy and I can see our breath turn to steam as it escapes our mouths, and then rise in clouds, up, above our heads, through the tangled limbs of trees. We rest, and through an opening we see the glow of settlement. 

Why do the Dublin city lights flicker, Dad?

I don’t know. I’ve never been.

Again we go and as we walk we do not speak, and when we happen to speak we do not talk. We are cowards, him and I. The leaves aren’t afraid and when they die under our big black boots they do not scream. They murmur stories of the fresh spring winds and the pleasant sun to which they were born, the innocence and the joy. The summer which came after, oh how pleasant! Full of energy, animated, yes, by a gentle breeze, yes, they whisper. The leaves do not tell of Autumn. It is too sad.

Their energy fills me. I channel their courage now.  

I can see the lights out my window, Dad. Sometimes I look out and I think of that Christmas when you told me to look up at the moon and the stars, do you remember, Dad? You said our gaze would cross, because eyes see further than the feet can bring, but I couldn’t see any stars that night, Dad, and the moon was hiding too. So I looked at the city lights, Dad, and they flickered just like that, but I knew you couldn’t see them, so was that good enough Dad? Was that good enough? 

Most of the time I wake up before he answers and that is a good thing. 

Amadeusz Kepinski

Spicy Gum

 there’s something calming about it,

kind of like my second girlfriend

my first real one,

who I used to kiss

after school only,

who used to kiss me

only after school,

it’s kind of like that.

she used to chew spicy gum

and take it out of her pale pink mouth,

just before I said hello.

and it was all cold then

between eyes and chins,

and that was nice.

it’s kind of like that,

so I take another sip