CONTENT="irish poetry, Irish poetry, Ireland, Irish poets, Irish poems, poetry in Ireland, innovative poetry, experimental poetry, alternative poetry, avant-garde, contemporary poetry, modernist poetry, neo-modernist, neomodernist">
The Net

and then there is this sound the red noise of bones
when the thieving sea will fit in three quart jugs
we suffer an exposure to the tune of several millions

fish that concerns may well bring
full of fishers now you lie that was well standing
the extreme old mysteries are too vast

starts with a leaping meat sequestered
lacking sealed and advanced of many orders these will be
vertigo that strikes stillness cruelly what brought this

ultimately scarcely audible from the mouth up to market
faltered the imperial my varied meat then safe a fourth
on the sand with the first dream of fire they hunt

the cold rustling on the road will get out
surface of your voice exhale presence
the flickering of the fields whispering

inside gold states fresh voice
that flew at once intoxicating craft with surveyed
irresistible winds in your veins rock and bring down awkwardly

lodges in the fine the whisper stream sundered
the ordered away not a tremor manifests the rare
the quickening across these settlements disturbs what wind

bleed echoing apparatus to the empty
for relish weed earths territories breeds
of knives thats how the unhinged in its course all night

source surely each within the diamond of the throat
dark and declared for bread abyssal within the marble
across an empty could buzz thrones behind their staggering

grows to each there to recount spilling down
in measured orchard matter waters for cold
and dominations the nodding weakness leaves sky

the exaltation to take in by breaking through stars and through
broth though scarcely in the air and is it that this simply is words
devastation fell attending headbone the high

bounds the watching snatches of the source
there is nothing either finished or not yet begun
blind frosts as joints and impersonal

courses ghosts disclose from high
there is nothing either finished or not yet begun
creak what soft amends rage but even these lost their

stars from elsewhere the system of stone traffic
perhaps truly savage already and to follow garrisons fishing
grip throughout may be attended to and strike the clock

shock until the fixed the disintegrating through the empty
the empty brief zones any more intelligence and not begun
outside the foundries the clumsy the deadlocked disintegrates

squares mesh of close actions
griefs are grounds the twig of bone of time and
the sun sun where they sleep centuries as new

abstracts attention of clocks so that eventually stay
empty still tamed rage is heavy influence
leaves howling as wood does not rise

you attend and to the distracted mum unerringly
elements turn the tempting until there come reduced
broke sometimes fierce the dream on the grass

hearing each hour and the child to the infinities
metals in parks only perhaps along the words over
and weary the shadow is mistaken disordered

will answer even what it must it sounds of numbers with all its clamouring
now quite forgotten of the air do not the furthest bounds in their
pulse one will sprawl from old stock of the vaulting

brood a history not know which shattering
sleep whats the air may be some dirt they fly and last
white and rest of sand is voices

of all the ordinary you realize the shriek jerking
of all bright a little ghost and these are even uncertain ever when the sun leans
its harsh roaring were joining beyond the bounds

cannot but end in aches routinely that is the change
down and lifts the asterisms the filling as we speak contained in
obliterates throat on your arm no silence no in a round

we suffer an exposure to the tune of several millions
when the thieving sea will fit in three quart jugs
and then there is this sound the red noise of bones


© Trevor Joyce