Slut

He slapped me across

The face once,

And then again, straight away.

Pulled me up by the scruff

Of me collar.

Squared up and got

Straight up in my face

Forehead to forehead.

‘You’re a dirty little slut’

He spat through his teeth

at me.

And then he kissed me

And I liked it.

And I wrote it down

Unashamed.

Men who write

He once said that

Men who write poetry aren’t manly.

He lived by an arbitrary ideal

Of tall men, strong men, silent men.

All the flowers and fauna and feelings

Are for girls.

Yet disappointment

At the unachievable

Plagued him.

As if the canon has not been defined by men.

By Shakespeare and Wordsworth,

Coleridge, Byron,

Blake, Shelly, and Keats.

By Joyce and Yeats,

And Kavanagh and Heaney.

And Whitman

And Eliot

And Pound.

Poetry is a woman’s game for sure

And his toxic masculinity

And fear of poetry

Has nothing to do

With his inability to verbalise

The disappointment he felt

Having never reached the ideals imposed

On his gender.

Don’t dance, don’t speak out, don’t feel small.

Society regulates us all.

Madeleine Minstrels

I’m havin’ a Madeleine moment

With this bag eh Minstrels.

Mad meditating over bygone days.

Havin a long stare off into fuck all.

Filled with thoughts of me holy communion.

I member

I took me massive little white gloves off

Me tiny little hands,

An I had an unchipped french manicure miracle all day.

Me ma did me nails the night before.

And I was delighted wi’ life

Sitting in the back of our navy Nissan

Goin’ around all dee aunties

Gettin’ told I was just

Bee-uuu-tee-ful.

I’m batting me eyelashins still.

And I knew it

I was massive.

This was the first time

I ripped a packet of Minstrels open,

And the paper glided

Like scissors on sexy chris’mas wrapping paper.

And sucked on one eh dem Minstrels

Until the heat of me mouth cracked their shell open.

Therewithin,

The soft, sweet, melted chocolate

Poured its insides out to me,

Like forbidden fruit or me first secret

On’ee I was allowed have dem.

This was me real holy communion.

Chocolate exposed itself to my tastebuds

And God,

I was alive for the first time.

This moment is deeply ingrained in my memory.

Like a Minstrels virgin!

Touched,

For the very first time.

High on life, and a

Rakeload of sugar.

I have seen the light

I thought to meself.

Holy God has blessed me

An’ now I know that

This is what the holy bread should taste like

Not that tasteless rubbish

That sticks to the top of your pallet

And you take ages trying to get it off wit your tongue

And give up and pull it off wit your finger instead

An your ma gives out to you

Tellin you

Holy God is watchin’ you!

Jesus was brown

So the body of Christ should be holy chocolate too!

Gimme the holy Minstrel!

Token, Smithfield, Dublin 7

There’s a pub in Smithfield called Token

Where you can go play on retro arcade games

Like street fighter, dance dance revolution, and tekken.

We went a long time ago, on a date.

You wouldn’t go on the dance machine like a loser,

And I kicked your arse

Because I am the fucking queen of tekken.

I found a little golden token from the machines

In the corner of my room the other day

When I was clearing out bits and bobs.

Absolutely useless to me,

Chances are, I’ll never go back.

I wonder how many others,

Have kept junk disguised as mementos.


But I put the token away in my safe spot.

I kept it, even though I’m not usually sentimental.

One day I might let you know I still have

This little token of my affection.

Or I’ll just go back

And play the game

Without you.

Inside story

I feel almost transparent

In the afterglow of us banging.

You’ve seen me naked,

No makeup, no clothes

No nothing.

Kissed the gap

Between my legs

With dedication.

Everyone is walking around

All ordinary

And my skin is

Screaming our secret at them.

I internally jitter

Do they know what we do

When they’re not around.

I am spilling hot tea everywhere.