Paralysed from the outside in … ink-instilled
Here he sits within a town called Castletownbere – watching it all bare down upon him, time off for good God behaviour and he will write it all down til his needy fingers fall the way off
Dreams will be a decidedly misshapen and nasty thing indeed – breathing as though a ghost of their former selves again …
When age turns your adolescent face and twists its former self til undeniably unrecognisable
Smitten alcohol-driven, -drinking, non-substantiated individuals that they were
Mid-life survivors who cradle their delicate evenings as though their favourite best friend – all of them tied right by the city of impenetrable realms / there appears to be no Fair City anymore but for these money-seizing reprobates (on a rung to nowhere of their perilous own) and caught at the sliding door
Suffice it to say that the world – whole aside wild as it were – holds this uttermost poised, poisonous purpose
Six million lonesome souls with no place, -where to go?  ‘Cept for home. Spelt with Capital DEATH only it tastes a little bit like Teddy’s Ice-Cream this time
Licked by the same city which placed a chip upon our very own shoulder … even if we hardly know it, let alone see it
She speaks-in-red,
whilst she
Who knew … ‘cept for everybody, really.