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Abstract

 

when walt whitman spokea multitudes

he meant     did he not     that within each ovus

an obsequious beer soaked indie boy broods

about steppin in front of a fuckin bus

        t burrow down intae the freckled id

    where coffee torns t treacle on the hotplate

and borst fegs are embedded in the carpet

    what i really mean is that ad hate

to be that kyid again          rollin along

crash barriers at some gig in the union

while the country is sold by the furlong

    drinkin what i made at my forst communion

on a nightly basis     then starvin maself

of breakfast & lunch & good mental health


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

James is originally from Newry in the north of Ireland. Recent work has appeared in bath magg, Poetry London, Poetry Ireland Review and The Poetry Review. He is editor of the upcoming anthology ‘The New Frontier: Contemporary Writing From & About the Irish Border’ to be published by New Island Books in October 2021, and he is a recipient of the 2019 Eric Gregory Award.


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