The chequered smell of a local boozer,
half-laden gentlemen belting out ballads.
Ronnie’s hoarse “óró, sé do bheatha ‘bhaile”,
Luke’s wayward journey across a rocky road.
Hummed among late night fumblings of keyholes.

Giuseppe Gillespie – Apr 2021

A.K.A ‘Táim ag Tnúth’. Níl aon rud cosúil leis na Dubliners a chloisteáil i sean-boozer!

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These Dreamless Nights

Sifting through these dreamless nights,
whose hushed whispers bring forth the toll of dawn.
Morning’s familiar flicker wounds worn-out eyes,
tentatively creeping in amongst constricted curtains closed.
Lost amidst Liedenbrock’s endless ocean and Montag’s burning revelation,
amidst Victor’s nocturnal genesis and the sunrise of Equality 7-2521.
Turned over and over until darkness falls again.
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What an old house it was!

A tightly worn painted coat fails to mask aged crack and sonorous creak.

Listen, you can hear a drip dance of droplets escaping from frosty fissure.

The growing cancer eating away its plunder,
an insatiable hunger.

Moulded and mildewed beam’s seam splintered,
With closer look oft mistook for kindling timbered.

Purest white silence that deafens hearing,
leering windswept melodies that scrape and sting.

I came round the bend with the intent to mend,
only to discover my old house was,
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Feeding Tubes

Heavy limbs lay low,
Yaw perturbed; it scratches bone.
Digging past skin, vein, and artery to find its home.
Restricting movement with promises of stinging kisses shrewdly kept.
Amplifying turmoil brought on by fumbling of naïve hands' neglect,
Twisted and scraped into place as her patience leapt.
Etching a half-moon mark into memory; writhing in place at my newfound accessory.
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