McMulligan is in love with Mandy O'Sullivan
a dark haired word enchantress
undressing language to its nut core syntax of sound...
.... sound
and rounded round the edges
by sweet melodious puffball voices
ploughing weightless in the mind
then out through her gob
and into the air

hitting the fold of ammonite skin
deep within the skulls
of all those heads around her

forming an audience of eager
listeners at table in W1 Covent Garden

or slapping down the tarmac
as they're stiching up the grandma's

whilst him indoors flicks the pages of Rousseau
wondering if the wallet stretch'll wipe him out
of shopping down the Waitrose.

He subscribes to a view which pulls wisdom from a

hat constructed in the classic meter
of right graspers fixing quantity to
stress; coz stressin's in the lingo we the
mongrel English speakers talk. Although few

possess the protocols of bygone times
the rules of thumb stirring human truth
once motioned the lip tipped cauldrons of rhyme
advancing language to perfection by
uninterupted evolution. Huge
swathes of generations adhered then to
a poetic process of frenzied grind,
gathered knowledge revealed through sorrow
and joy, star brought to thier slanted vessels
by unbroken song. Their cauldron's poem
fermented brews of art by eight settled
precepts of division, agreed on in
conscious realms elsewhere than this awareness
which still reflects how the creator
expresses what connections of fairness
exist in the relationships we the
author make as life writes itself out on
the slate we cannot wipe our mistakes from.