An Irish Poetry Knobhead Squad was out in force last night, prowling a gallery of art, puffed up in an all weather jacket the operative felt unable to remove, due to her unhygienic state. For the last forty-eight hours, "Dick" (lurking undercover in the guise of a balding white-slum male officer agent on duty for the Global Poetry Coalition's Intelligence and Enforcements Agency) has been sporting a dress and calling himself "Doreen", fully equipped to capture and extol the showtime vibes crucial for honest poesie to thrive, and; he as a she had a right old dust up of things
So much so that the muse whose balance weights his reality - in the critical pieces of incisive reportage Mr Misery has been contracted to produce - is no longer writing for us at the moment and arrangements have been agreed with an alternative member of staff which are now in effect.
The role of author exploring where language may lead has been handed over to the mind of MC Megagag Lovidia Yeats,
who wields through mechanical pencil to keyboard what thoughts within her allotted span will breathe or sneeze in print towards unmarked borders winding through the breeze unchecked
to a point of light calculation - now gadget measured - but once a knowledge vast generations of ancients guarded in the temples of their gods.
On the cusp of getting brought within a complex of arbiters whose practice of symbol ritual, truth and belief
takes place continuously here at the Helicon Height HQ of Dublin Quays
I urge you drop in, turn on and tune out. For a strange thing is afoot in the world of verse, and the art-hewn bulliten board is straining under the leish of trivia and tremendously important developments in the world of Irish poetry and, as one night's tale can be told as anothers let me recount how
In concrete sea beneath some steps a shorebound salmon listens to nuts talk of fish who swim through blather squalls
and an audience of water falling sedate as its force lifts bouyant affirmnational rites.
Elsewhere a lone headlamp collides with alert rabbit-like eyes, alive but
unable to hop through space unexpected, bouncy pressing, real or merge in absent disconnection unspotted heard tasted or told,
the animal sticks up a paw to cut figures through air searching for a centre-point of dawn's eternal love
in the flame of life timelessly tick tocking homeward to a cool faced glow where modernity's edge
sits atop of nature kip grim unable to hide or stop from flopping completely as frozen shatters of tap run meek clop beat bop bleats chip silent from the clock.