Seán Kennedy lacks the ambition, and the wit, of most conspiracy theorists
A pipe at the edge of Kilcock’s new estate
pushes translucent waste into the canal;
the colourless essence of the town’s inhabitants
perhaps, infused with aloe vera
as most things are these days;
more likely chemicals shipped from Sellafield
that government stooges have been pumping
into waterways since they told us
fluoride would improve the nation’s oral health.
Well fuck that, fat cats.
The latest reprint of The Winding Stair
has a large display in Hodges Figgis
with what appears to be, in the jacket,
a very modern photo of its long-dead author;
I wasn’t aware they had vintage filters then –
explain that, you crooks;
the shot will look great on Instagram,
and I guess that’ll sell more books;
“Remember Yeats? He’s back – in pog form!”
Fuck off, poetry-industrial complex.
The exact change policy on Dublin Bus
is pure bullshit – they’re pocketing coppers
we’ll never get back on O’Connell;
I guess Leap Cards will solve everything
and not just expose personal information
to a fiendish corporation
who’ll sell it on to the Yanks; inevitable
if this PSC scam is going to shit.
But they’re not fucking me, not a hope –
I’m no fucking dope.
Scream. Scream. Gasping. Saw. Cutting.
Not Beckett nor Pinter
Not gaudiest Shakespeare
Not real, not real
Could the transcription ever
(ever evre erve)
articulate the real?
Express an absolute?
Redress the unknowable
moment, of intake, of exhale?
Tough, chewy muscles
The spirit left him so rhythmically –
jigged out of his open neck,
reeled across the marble,
wretched onto my subconscious
But this is not my moment,
my intake, my exhale
This is not my moment,
mine will not likely be as violent,
mine will not likely
Seán Kennedy’s poetry has appeared online at The Honest Ulsterman, The Bangor Literary Journal, The Poetry Shed, and elsewhere. He began writing poetry after finishing an MA in English at Maynooth University a few years ago; his decisions haunt him daily. He lives in Ireland.