Fuck high drop curbstones

and onrushing traffic,

and time lapsing lights

and darkening skies.

Fuck furious drivers

and speed and time,

and dead end straight streets

and sweating necks tied.

Fuck unmentioned wells

and ungripping hands

and danced unromantic

well thought out words

Fuck georgian buildings

and double-glazed windows

and beautiful girls,

and dust unquaking.

Fuck cold hands aching

and souls lost searching,

and crying, not feeling

but crying.

Fuck forgotten moments

and haunting frames,

and well preserved falsehoods

and being alone.

Fuck drunken labouring

and sad street fights

and no shattered bones

and no broken organ

Fuck colourless punches

and worn down guts

and being afraid,

and unbelieving.

Watching the wheels of

all us turning, down

and not, and all us

hoping, along the path

and drifting stream

vicious clouds of

all that brings

and all that doesn’t see.

And the wheels they will spin on, an how long, and forever

– NJ


Old face,

New shoes,

Subterranean Homesick Blues,

You listen through a bramble of headphones on the 46A

First day

Of second chance,

Not this nervous since a Valentine dance,

The fear threatens to derail you

Bus stops,

Heart doesn’t

New shoes,

Old grace,

Dusty glasses,


Diarmuid Moone,


First year Arts student,

Never too late

– RG

King Django

Django’s late”, she said,

Though he’s been late for years, 

I crossed her arms, while in tears,

Because I felt our love was dead — 

Such germ of abortion, but I was glad,

Sipping images of a Kubrickian sad 

Flick, tricked into a cinematic guise,

Hyperflowing into a river, silent and wise. 

I’ve seen this somewhere else”

She whispered in my ear, and I nodded, 

Whilst this celluloid clicked and whistled.

Her legs were wrapped around a blanket 

A blanket was wrapped around her legs.

I held them both to postpone an educated death. 

Django never showed up, he never did, oh no!

So why wait, anyway, for his sleep-like essence? 

We undress as if to tether our more than mortal presence.

– F.B

Musings of a Love-Drunk Fool

The aftermath of any kind of romantic attachment,

reciprocated or otherwise,

is awfully similar to a hangover:

There’s the nausea,

the crippling embarrassment,

the pleas for death…

of course the severity varies.

But just like a hangover,

in your lowest moments

you swear

never ever to fall in love again.

Perhaps you’re not lying

face down on the bathroom floor,

relishing the cool sensation

of the tiles on your cheek,

muttering to yourself;

promising every deity you can think of

that you will never, ever, ever again

so much as sip a wine spritzer

(never mind drink an entire shoulder of vodka…)

But you look back on

your love-drunk self and know

that this time you’ve learned your lesson.


next Saturday night

brings a round of pints at the pub

and suddenly

you’re back on the bathroom floor,

cursing your stupidity.

We will never stop drinking.

We will never stop falling in love.

Because however high the pay-off,

however big the risk,

however hellish the hangover,

before the crash;

it just feels too damn good.

– AH


Crowded streets

Empty faces

Only one


– NM