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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #47, October 2006. ISSN 1479 425X

The Internationl Journal of Poetry & Graphics…since 2002

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Eamonn Stewart

 

Annals of The Palace of Wisdom

 

From the room below the strangest smell

A Mistral of spermicidal gel.

A parched cry from the landing

I can tell the snakes are leading Sandy to Siwa.

 

His mates lurched under a 24

Like Amon Zeus.

Some Chav aroused from sleep

Raged that they would all be juiced.

 

Hes being led to Siwa by snakes

Through a fortnight of desert

No Giro could slake.

 

Some Pythia raves

As male voices swell,

Inspired by spermicidal gel.

 

 

Annals of The Palace of Wisdom II

 

The Blood Trail Lee Hestia Hostel 2005

I saw a man who wasnt all there

A human travois dragged down the stairs.

 

Fuckin stop! was all he could say

As his esprit descalier.

 

Those werent sunspots

They were flyspecks on the lens

Cast on the back of a mass card

Id bought for my best friend.

 

White Horses on school holidays TV

The Camargue was my idea of purgatory.

 

The evil star Wormwood

Fell in the sink.

Each ripple in the sea

A sundial.

Every sharks fin

 

              

Transit of Venus/Transit of Access

 

On the day of the transit of Venus

Belfast was overcast.

The Family Court clerk

Metered the Teardrop Effect

From first to last.

 

My daughter wouldnt see me

Since I spoke to her like my peers

Both cases reviewed in 244 years.

 

My First Communion congratulations

Were profane

Not age-appropriate

Too urbane.

 

Later, The Evening Stars

Portentous Eclat,

Not sleeping, I saw it rise the same.

 

 

The Chav’s Judgement of Paris

 

“The Sibyl’s raving mouth

Prophesies without mirth”

Each night, The Spear Carriers

Shamble onstage:

 

“E”s invoke crass Judgements of Paris

or worse, Paris’s are left forlorn

and in a rage.

 

Delinquents drunk on The Cider of Discord,

Stabbed my friend as his girlfriend

Stared aghast.

Because some bouncer with a flaming sword

Drove them from a disco,

They weren’t prepared to let this pass.

 

My uncle told me long ago

That cows used to run after steam locos.

In this Thereomorphosis of Chavs

They pursue boys in filched fast cars.

 

Flocked round a cable junction box,

They bash a din from it with their feet.

As I pass they ominously stop.

And, in the silence of the too-dark

street,

 

One perches there, headless

As Samothracean Nike –

Anencephalic, in baseball cap and hoody:

I hear the box’s electrics Lamasary choir.

Fear spins awe’s prayerwheel –

Grants my desire.

 

 

Our Guns of August Returned to me in a Dream

 

The only ticker tape parades they had

Were our volleys of cap guns firing like mad;

And the tape worms in the parcels of shite

We lobbed in the jeeps on those August nights.

 

The alter boy  who swung the censer

Inspired us with CS gas.

Neon cats cradle of tracer,

Efflorescence of windscreen glass.

 

Traffic intertranspicuous with pig-iron sunshine

In The Indian Summer of 1969.

 Votive penny candles arrays

Slopped  Muybridgeizing autos da fe.

 

The Apollo Mission left me stunned

And I was allowed to stay-up late.

Then, The Guns of August

Fired by Shankill Huns

Keep throwin Shell was their litany of hate.

 

 

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