Easy Business

Can I see through miasmic
swamp of “I,” until I am all
alone with you, wrapped in
green clouds, tapping leafy
veins, rooted deep in air
that is everywhere, & endless?
Your deep evening makes all
things possible, probabilities
aside, & I want you, heavily.    


Live Poery At The Other Room

Honorary FitzGerald Geraldine Monk is reading her poetry tonight at The Other Room, The Wonder Inn, 29 Shudehill, Manchester, M4 2AF, a twenty second walk from the city-centre tram-stop of the same name.

Monk is a North Lancashire poet with no phony airs, affected graces, put on pretensions, or performary hubris prevalent in numerous others less naturally gifted and with a less diligently sustained poetic attainment than this truly brilliant self-trained Ban Filí faery woman experientially versed in the apical compositional skill of the poet, imbhas forosnai - 'prophetic illumination' - in bardic practice one of the Three Things Required of a Poet.

The Wonder Inn is 'a creative wellness centre based in a beautiful old listed building built in 1810 in the centre of Manchester. Our focus is to raise the vibrations of our community and the planet through creativity and the celebration of art.'

It begins at seven pm, and is free admittance.

And also reading is someone I may have been in the same as and occasionally read of as being actively reading live shortly after one stepped away in 2008 from four years poetic pranks on Dublin's weekly live poetry and spoken word scene: 'a scholar, ideas person and a perfectionist', whose poems, Afric McGlinchey writes, in Cork's premier literary magazine, The Penny Dreadful; 'are exciting, daring, original and hard-earned. Moreover, they have something to say.'

We can what they say tonight from the mouth of the Irish-American Elkhart, Indiana poet Kimberly Campanello, who is ' like Billy Ramsell, attempting something new, something challenging and inspiring and radical, something that hasn’t been seen before in contemporary Irish poetry'.

According to Doireann Ní Ghríofa reviewing Consent, KC's debut Doire Press collection, in Ireland's premier literary magazine launching all the hot new stars, global best-seller The Stinging Fly.

Joining Campanello and Monk tonight are fellow experimental poetry and literary avant-garde culture professionals, Iain Morrison; and 'one of the most interesting and inspiring authors writing flashes today', a live performance spoken slam poet Blackwell's called 'the lit scene's most chic starlet', and Manchester Music helpfully informs the Reader that 'The detail in her observations can turn the most mundane setting to one you want to experience ... her style keeps listeners eagerly wanting more': Sarah-Clare Conlon.

May all our love be large and all our sorrow small.

Best wishes.

Kevin Desmond Swords


Adam Fieled/Philly Free School Link Catalog: Summer 2016 (Scribd)

Ekphrasis: Portrait: Mary Harju/Adam Fieled

Dear M, I know many yeses.
Yes, I’ve had pants-ants, I’ve

sewed my oats, not Quaker,
but remember: oats are small.

Yes, I wrote our happenings,
made them public. OK, you

can say I suck. Sucking hasn’t
made me sour, however. I’m

as sweet as a Gobstopper. I’m
colorful, too. You should suck

me again sometime. Love, A. 

c. Mary Harju/Adam Fieled 2006


Ekphrasis: The Fall: Mary Harju/Adam Fieled

I look at a bridge through the window.
I am standing, naked, while you paint.

I feel that every moment is new, nude.
I am in my body as it actually is, I am

in time as it moves forward, from in
side my body, responsive to drafts

coming through the window, mirrors
that show me what I know too well

to know, what I have lived through
and with, what I have seen but not

been Other to. Sunlight glistens—
we fall upwards, without question.

c. Mary Harju/Adam Fieled 2008


Diana Magallon: te_a_tro

Diana Magallon's site te_a_tro in the mid-Aughts employed my instrumental El Goodo, from the Ardent album, as its theme song.

hutt 2.2: Song for Genevieve (Walsh)


Philly Free School: Live Play by Play: 2005

These salvaged pages document Philly Free School happenings as they progressed through the blistering inferno which was 2005: PFS at Molly's Books in South Philadelphia; PFS at the Highwire Gallery; PFS planning Poetry Incarnation '05 and Bowery Poetry Club shows in New York; Poetry Incarnation '05 playback; and BPC playback as well, as well as the BPC calendar with us (8/13). Cheers!

hutt: Song for Genevieve

A salvaged page from the mid-Aughts: Song for Genevieve in Australia's hutt. And in Starfish

From Me-Tronome: December 17, 2007


Chris Goodrich: from Ocho #11

Upon Hearing that She and the Man with whom She Cheated are getting Married

Somewhere behind me
the staccato of young men,
their laughter, a fitting truth,
something I wish I had
moments ago when the news
covered my body like sudden
rain.. Beside me, an umbrella
I’ve carried since morning.
I hope to God I don’t forget it
when it’s time again to leave.
I’ve ruined more evenings that way,
my shoes soaked, my body shaking.
I don’t know what kind of animal
love is. I do know how to pray
on bent knees for someone
else’s failure. From the ledge
of a lonely and startled dream,
I put my hands together and begin
the way anyone would: Dear God

In my dreams I play flower girl
at your wedding. A meticulous
and rehearsed walk down
the lantern-lit aisle, a white wicker
basket anchoring my enthusiasm,
releasing the pink petals carelessly
into the wind. Pink being, in my mind,
the color of grace, the basket a symbol of sanity,
my dress, black as a bitch slap, the only sign
that something is terribly wrong.

That and the fact that I kidnapped,
in the name of forgiveness, the real flower girl,
tied her to the back seat of my car
(I’ve cracked the windows). She’ll return
home after the reception, unharmed,
I promise, after we have danced and danced,
and after, god willing, I lift a glass to you Jennifer,
to you Chris, that you both may see how much I have grown.

Drinking Together, Li Po and I admire
Wang’s Garden

We go back and forth like this:
raising our gin soaked chins
to a translucent daytime moon,
toasting the indecent goldenrod,
the sweet sting of morning,
then, falling deep into an unbelievable 10am,
memorizing the hibiscus.

Last night, a dozen friends joked
as you stripped clean and rode the rope
swing into the river. Afterwards, the wine wet,
the grass low and dying, we vowed to cherish
the balding crocus in sickness and health.

This morning we watch the birds
return one by one to Wang’s roof,
our backs against the same oak,
our tumblers now empty.
I am drifting in and out of consciousness
but you are still awake, writing something down,
transfixed by willow-blossom, the call of the moon,
willow-blossom, moon, blossom, moon.


An Immigrant Responds

I've noticed that many of the voices in the republic who loudly demanded in the run up to the last referendum that Scotland vote to leave the Union they'd been part of for three centuries, for an unnatural land border to be created, and for the island of Britain to be partitioned; are the exact same voices that have about turned and are now just as loudly demanding the UK remain in the European Union they've been part of for only four decades.

In 2014 they were banging on about how Scotland was an independent country and very much looking back to a rosy cliche of Scotland as a one dimensional shortbread tin place, invoking Culloden and the past in a very positive and nationalistic way. Yet now we are told by the same people that anyone who supports leave is a racist little Englander looking back to a rosy place that can no longer exist in the 21C.

Many of them are using the refugee crisis to get cheap digs in against our neighbour, posting diatribes, memes, and pictures of right wing English loons, instead of doing summat more positive and productive like demanding the refugees come here to safety in the Republic of Ireland, where there's twelve times less people than in Britain, and lots more room for them.

The same pseudo-political luvvies who were banging on about how unfair the un-elected Commission, and what they were then calling a dictatorship of Europe, was to Ireland after the economic crash of 2008, are now suddenly big fans of the EU; getting their rocks off using the upcoming referendum to indulge in one of their favourite cultural sports. Brit bashing.

This inconsistency and reversal of position from advocating for breakaway independent nation states to European federalism, has led me to wonder: could it be that what is really driving these loud anti-English voices to get involved in the sovereign decisions of the neighbouring isle when posting all their scaremongering pictures and memes, is not a genuinely helpful desire and consistent political position, nor giving two hoots about what is best for the people of Europe, Britain or Scotland; but a lingering age old latent cultural enmity toward the English common in some of the over 40s here. Inculcated into society and culture over three generations by Eamon de Valera and his gang of religious nutbags.

Who, let's not forget, before the great hero murdered by his own people, Michael Collins, had even returned to Dublin with the best deal for independence he and the team that Dev handpicked to parlay with the most able of the British empire, could negotiate - decided, without even having met Collins off the boat and read the proposal, solely through his jealously of the younger man, to bring about the sin and stain of the Irish civil war. All over a form of words he swore he would 'wade through rivers of Irishmen's blood' rather than utter.

Then, ten years later, after his destructive antics had left him sidelined from public life, the great dictator Dev u-turned, went into parliamentary politics, swore an oath to the King that he previously instigated the civil war over; and proceeded to sell out every single ideal of the republic's founding Proclamation once in power.

With absolutely no input from the Brits, Dev set about reducing the status of Irish women to little more than the property of their husbands, using the bully pulpit of church and state to name, shame, surveil, brainwash, and control through fear the Irish people; imprisoned all his former comrades in arms who disagreed with him, banned from publication in Ireland all her greatest writers, created the state slave and sex abuse factories into which were tossed anyone transgressing the sickeningly hypocritical morals of the ultra-dysfunctional Church; making Ireland a laughing stock, and treating the country as his own private fiefdom.

Spending the rest of his life making sure there was total silence about the crimes of the civil war, state and church, and deflecting all the silent unexpressed hatred for the contemporary crimes of church and state he was responsible for creating, onto the English, by playing the role of whinging victim and concentrating the focus of the national mind onto the historical injustices the English had visited upon Ireland, with the mantra of eight hundred years, eight hundred years.

I have not seen one post from the 'eight hundred years' crowd using the refugee crisis to bash the Brits, calling for the Republic of Ireland to take in refugees. Plenty of posts demonsing the English and using refugees as the excuse to do so, but nothing by way of concrete proposals, or even calls, to welcome refugees over here. Not one.


Don't they want refugees here?

The numbers of asylum seekers and conditions these poor frightened people escaping terror in their homelands are more or less jailed in when they arrive in the republic, certainly suggest that we the citizens of the republic should look at our own cultural faults and flaws first, before finding easy and cheap ways to creatively engage in playing the victim of the British empire at every opportunity and slagging off the auld (English) enemy.

OK, we all get the eight hundred years bit, but none of us alive now in the republic younger than ninety-five ever lived under British rule. And this aside, what did they ever do for us anyway? Apart from give us our infrastructure, law, English language and Anglophile culture?

'Eight hundred years, eight hundred years.' You don't hear the French and Germans dwelling on and moaning about far worse, and far more recent historical injustices. So, do us a favour, moaning Brit bashers; get over yourselves, and start practicing what you claim to preach in your whinging anti-English diatribes. Please. Thanks very much.

Grá agus síocháin.


New York Sonnet #5

Against the backdrop of eternity
choking victims celebrate the season
forget it, forget it, forget
hello Dan.....23 hours have passed
an irritating man pressing buttons
I think Bukowski would hate me
of course we dance in threes
the crushing faces anonymous
Briana's breath
who has a kite in her chart
to have the sex of good tidings
for the looney movie later
betray your bed with bounces
the stick, the notch, the fire-


Yudu love the summer...


Kendall Jenner: Mortified


From Stoning the Devil: Apparition Poem #1519

From Stoning the Devil: Apparition Poem #1180


To Baudelaire: October 1996

Mama’s boy! Compassionate
ridiculous dandified cunt!
Right minded, wrongheaded,
unwed slave and parasite!
No poets go to Hell— God
be with you, vulgar and
adorable prick! May your
tarted up nose-pick tales
grow into a grin in the ether!

You immortal artist you—
we remember, who have
been in New Jersey at midnight,
no women, nothing to do,
sitting through thunders, hurricanes,
what it is to be bored, “to ennui”—
to sling a black coat over our
shoulders, stroll streets in paroxysms,
then into ecstasy, devilish slumbers,
out again into the ocean— we remember thee.

Revelation from Holmes Hall: October 1996

I escaped a father I hated, broke
from Moses, his Commandments,
shunned synagogue machinery,
slipped past esoteric Torah, hid
in recesses of a flat white satin
wall (Jennifer, her loins), dreamed
our future for the Universe—

I fathered a Bible-less expanse,
yellow leaves fell, rain coated,
I dawdled, fumbled, waited for
lightning or roses, circles drew
me back to watch these trees:
Buddha, Yahweh, Adonai, Christ,
Mohammed, the escaped father

lives, impersonal, diurnal, this
the refuse of his wisdom I partake
of, dreaming no future for myself
past what modes of suffering are
encompassed outside a third-story
window on a night when Jennifer
rounds the Universe off to a third, out—    

Architecture and the Weight of Centuries

As to what constitutes the most profound, durable form of human progress— certainly, most educated people would place emphasis, if asked, on the higher disciplines: science, philosophy, high art, and architecture. The kind of work which constitutes the most profound, durable form of progress in these disciplines has, as a constituent element, what I call the weight of centuries effect. What I call the weight of centuries effect is self-evident in the work— an attempt to assimilate into the work, the influence and gravitas of all that has been accomplished in the respective discipline before, going back not just decades but centuries. If this is what constitutes human progress, it needs to be acknowledged that a huge chunk of modern human society is the avowed enemy of human progress. The modern press corps, for example— who express their avowed stance as enemies of human progress by running away, screaming, from any high discipline work with the weight of centuries effect inhering. The press subsist, essentially, to produce what I call a “wall of horseshit” effect (conversely), and the wall of frivolous, ephemeral horseshit is there to lead the populace, often subconsciously, to the realization that there is not nor ever can be any profound human progress, no weight of centuries. The darker side of the human race and the human continuum demand that the entire surface of human life, in fact, be a wall of horseshit, and all profound progress hidden. As I’ve begun to understand architecture, and the architectural dimension of human life from Philadelphia, one of the great architectural masterwork cities of the world, and a city whose high sector affiliations tower over other American metropolis/suburb areas, I put PFS/Neo-Romanticism and our achievements resolutely on the architectural side of things.

In fact, architecture is useful in establishing a demarcative line between weight of centuries material in the high disciplines and everything else. Being on the side of the demarcative line we are on, it behooves us to be realistic about what we can expect. PFS has, in-built, some Hollywood-level sex appeal to offer; the photos attest to it; leading some to wonder why the media will not cover us. The reason is simple: as the avowed enemies of human progress, the press note the architectural bias of our work— the weight of centuries effect— and run screaming in the other direction. If the press are to erect the wall of horseshit they need to erect for themselves, with the specific intention of outright denial of weight of centuries/human progress, everything associated with architecture has to be an anathema, our sex appeal be damned. Party politics can be like this on the surface, too— not the weight of centuries, the weight of pure, totalized evanescence. So, these are the wages of an architectural bias for the Philly Free School; weight of centuries signifies that we will have to be ploughed over in favor of evanescent trash on the surface by the enemies of human progress. The weight of centuries demarcative line is very stringent about this. On the other hand, we have the peace of mind of knowing that no one can accuse us of selling out, or selling cheap. It also needs to be noted that the wall of horseshit approach to the surface of human life is not going anywhere; is, in fact, intransigently built into human history.

One of the reasons that a movement like Neo-Romanticism must grow incrementally— the opposition will always try to rig things so that it can never generate any real momentum. Neither the press corps, nor the party politicians want momentum to develop behind any work with the weight of centuries insignia inscribed onto it, which is the insignia of genuine human progress. Momentum, invariably, is for evanescent trash, some of which can stand as a simulacrum of weight of centuries work, but never the real thing (and, as is sinister, both the press corps and the party politicians do know the difference). As per the opposition: are they people, you might ask, or are they amoebas? One thinks swiftly of Swift, and is grateful for some of his literary incisions. Who cares? The right buildings, including here on Fayette Street in Conshohocken, exude their own kind of sentience among the perceptive sectors of the human race, impose their own standards and ethos and make their own demands. Architecture, as a secret powerhouse in human society, may have its emergence in some sectors facilitated by PFS. However much momentum may be allowed to accumulate, all of it will be directed towards getting a wider audience to note weight of centuries level work, and not the simulacrum of same. Keats, Bach, and Rubens rather than Shakespeare, Mozart, and Rembrandt— the first tier being ranked first, right on the surface. I will not attempt to conceal that Neo-Romanticism maintains an avenging angel attitude towards the enemies of human progress, and weight of centuries. Whenever we can afford to fuck the bad guys over, and push the architectural up, we will do so; let momentum fall where it may.


Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996

Art, it would seem, is a nice way of
saying that everything resides in hell—
the pictures are anguish— the negatives,
hiding somewhere, ecstasy.

They’re mounted on plain grey walls.
Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay,
bug-like, into corners. I am not,
unfortunately, basking in the glow of
abundant creativity, but am thrashed
by a sense of impotence. How do I
let the images in? The blonde over
there: does she do penance by giving
head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill
from low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony
of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an
artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls.

Art, it would seem, is
a nice way of saying that everyone
resides in hell— the people are anguish—
the spirits, hiding somewhere, ecstasy.

From Tumblr: Two from PSU, State College, '96-'98

Room 510, Atherton Hilton, State College: July 1996

Lightning illuminates the pale sky; rain
on the leaves sounds like waves. Snakes
rattle across the Earth, hold themselves
erect under the onslaught. Your body,
Jennifer— lax against a pillow, aghast
at the finality of clouds. Lampshades
are tan mushrooms— wallets stuffed
with obscure currencies. Some stray
Ruth may (later) come to wound me.
Swim for your life, junk-in-the-veins
Narcissus— Rimbaud is just a button
to push, guided by voices or not. Our
face of passion is one we had before we were born.  


Nefertiti (College Avenue, State College, September 1996)

To the blonde, cigarette dangling from
lips in the blue Chevette— in a past life
I had you in Egypt, we danced, your
a neck like Nefertiti’s, furiously we made
love, lived together also in Pompeii, your
volcanic thighs took me sky-high, here
you are again, pale cool flat diamond
eyed, I am ravishing you, we never think
of New Jersey, murder, mortuaries, what’s
ugly, fleeting, as the light goes green it
is all in the grass of your face forever—
frissons, fireworks in someone’s mind. 

Kendall Jenner: Breathing, No