Now language is a prison, / true communication is impossible, / our deepest desires remain eternally frustrated. // We are the flies nutting the closed window / next to the open window.
I am thinking of you, and the bees are drowning / in the pool. The whole surface is a ballroom, // the tiny pieces move and coruscate and the air / is sticky with humming...
I’d be attracted to people who had guns the same way / I am attracted to people I suspect don’t like me. // I would walk up to them shyly with my hands up / and ask for a hold. I’d say Hollowpoint or Wadcutter / as if they were the nicknames of our mutual friends.
When Sasquatch was found face down on a dual carriageway / the world united in a quiet and shameful silence.
The rain is string / for wrapping a package no one knows / the inside of, they just keep trying to mail it.
B O D Y recommends seven European and British literary journals: Poetry London, Versal, Cerise Press, The Dark Horse, Poetry Salzburg, Blackbox Manifold and Cake.
the bright beads / of his eyes swivelling / remorselessly // from one catastrophe / to another. And this / is what, so far, // has kept him alive
"And since you already have a street in mind and perhaps a breed of dog, / a colour of lead, or the kind of coat the man is wearing, why not become / the man dragging a dead dog on a lead behind you? Why not try..."
"What is certainly clear is that ‘The Snow Party’ is a minor masterpiece in which Mahon has gained maximum effect from minimum means by developing one central image."