Deirdre Murphy died on the 11th June, exactly three years after she should have died of a stroke. She was a despicable old bat, a snobby try hard, an utter sour puss, to name a few of her nicknames.
we keep walking
maybe fearful of touching
in front of others
unable to be completely who we are
two men with love
happily growing older
the genre of god
is locksmith and that’s
why neon is always
looking for a sign :
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;
Appel turns his professional interest in the workings of the human mind to a narrative exploration of the reasons we tell lies.
Above the house a low sun like a wrecking ball,
the world at the horizon splintered like a Rothko
douse it douse it douse it
strike a match and freeze the scene
i’d put stickers all over the moon
and hang it from the ceiling
in the living room
For those who forego the languor of home ground, that lethal rapine of routine, the most compelling sound of the travelling life might be a ferry’s foghorn throughout the night
I’m ready for the ritual
where I get crowned a
While I sleep
journey across my bedroom floor.
In lattie we held martinis,
un-clobbered each other –
left our cats on the floor in nishta.