Jackson

“An Lar” is the Irish name for the Dublin city centre. Only in reality do my feet in their boots feel the constant pressure of an other place Only in reality does every wake-up second burn significance onto my brainpaths Only in reality does an ancient river see me. And only … in reality am Read more

Smash this ridiculous bird! and dress him for Christmas in bling in lights in plastic pine, truss him forever in string in tight leather He doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t see the stone coming, sees only the crying space, the lying space, the failure space & the markup. Where the hell is he going? They Read more

I walk with the ghosts who walk on the beach. I photograph the rails,        the security cameras, the grey sea,        the mansions on the hillside. I touch the stone walls,        sit on the steps, breathe the air,        read the graffiti. I climb the hill and look at the view. I stand Read more

The photographs are silent. That’s the thing about them. The silence. Yet you can hear them if you listen late at night with the house all quiet if you listen in the blackness when the band’s gone home if you listen in the breaks between transmissions you’ll hear them. Light is nothing. Potential. Imaginary lines Read more

Insert your tongue between my lips Let me feel its small raspy tip on the tip of mine Shove it repeatedly into my mouth Until my nipples are like small lighthouses screaming your name Until my cunt is bursting and weeping with wanting you What is it I want? What? Put your words in my Read more

I love it when you dress in rags. The ragged edges show how whole the centre is. When you dance in your old clothes simpler than today’s clothes your powerful body shows me the child inside. We are just children wearing layers. Dress in rags. Show me a bit of your skin, and if your Read more