Born in Belfast, 1965. He studied at the University of Warwick, gaining a BA in
Film and Literature. From there he went to Queen's University Belfast to study
for an MA on T.S.Eliot and the French philosopher Jacques Lacan. He has just
finished a stint as writer-in-residence at the Albert-Ludwig Universitat, Freiburg
im Breisgau, Baden-Wurtemburg, Germany. His poetry, literary criticism, book
reviews and travel writings have been published in English, Irish and American
journals. He has published a pamphlet and one previous book of poetry, and has
read from his work in Paris, Cambridge, Galway and Belfast. He is at the moment
writing an oral history of the Black Forest, and working on many reviews of
contemporary authors. He also writes philosophy and enjoys working on the
interface between poetry and philosophy.

For Igor Stepanov


Immense plastic surface reflected immense plastic surface. Lemon hair, potato nose, shirt, trousers. Distant music.


Rift of Beethoven, fart of Mozart, dash of Haydn.


"Which hotel are you staying at?"
"Schwarzwalderhof." I lied.
"Enjoy the local wine."
"I will."


End of fire. Redlight district. Creak of stairs, unloosened, unhinged, unredeemed. Image of mindblistering cunt.

Breathless of the stair, caught between the devil and despair.


4 men unfurling a banner. They direct me to a room on a lower floor. When I arrive there, a derelict, no voices, threats, entchantments, a burnt out derelict.


Banner headline...


I re-hook. Back and forth went the engine in the no nonsense night. Back and forth, into the womb, tomb and charnel house. I unhitched the lever, pulled and spewed forth the perfect story machine.


A slow motion shot of me ascending the stair, 4 men unfurling a banner, concealing the deep bucket of babies bodies. Back and forth, back and forth thrummed the machine, it seemed to say, in the repetition of the machine's humming, in the thrum, the deep bowels of the machine, the story is generated. Back and forth, back and forth, my foot touches the 5th stair. Everywhere penises are pushing, pulling, back and forth, a tidal wave of semen is rolling down the stairs towards me, wrapped up inside a cosmic tortilla. A universe of babies, all neatly eaten, all gazing like dead squid with great rotund eyes, out of the bottomless bucket.

The red tide of Communism is stopped, because out of the vacuum reverberates the never-ending push and pull of the miraculous Capitalist penis, pushing the Communists back and back.


Child's pop up storybook village, absurdity and mind-boggling banality. Insignificance. 'Citizen Kane' the most important film of all time, the experts all agree, they are paid to agree. Rosebud, the name of Kane's sled, the key to the enigma of Kane's life and personality. Common denominators. Hollywood, the most significant common denominator on the planet. Taking all the films made in the last 20 years in Hollywood, the actor with most credits is the Canadian actor, Kevin Bacon. Although not a star, Kevin Bacon has more appearances in more films as 3rd or 4th supporting actor. The common denominator, the thing that binds humanity together in an unending, indefatigable chain is the Canadian actor Kevin Bacon. In Jerusalem, Cairo, London, Mexico City crowds walk to their synagogues, churches, temples, mosques to bow down before the statue, the image, the icon of Bacon. Baconism, a world conquering religion, philosophy, a mantra, code, language of ultimacy and eternity. Bacon - Godhead, Messiah, supporting Star.

Rosebud. The sled is cast into the fire at the end of 'Citizen Kane'. The child loses his toy, for the last time the sled burns, the paint flakes and bubbles, the wooden frame burns. Kane had a taste for opera and for women, his political ambitions are destroyed by an affair. His wife and his rivals destroy him. He walks past an endless hall of mirrors, the shattered image of Kane in the hall of mirrors. Mass man, American man, his identity diffuse, his life a kaleidoscope, a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be pieced together by those who are paid to uncover scandals, other people's lives.

In Rohrbach 'rosebud' means desire. The signifier disconnected from its root - the oven, the ending, the enigma - has become a trope for illicit desire. Rosebud is as unmentionable as sin. This word, this anger, this metaphor for desire, this disconnection. Rosebud is the taboo that even Freud failed to analyse. In the fields near Rohrbach Jesus walks with the 12 disciples. At the street corner Marx, Plato, Beethoven and the Buddha discourse on truth and virtue. In the village Chapel Bach conducts his Brandenburg Concertoes. Rohrbach is the wormhole, the bin, the redundancy, the silent, still unspeakable place where all that was formerly significant before the triumph of Baconism, goes to. At Rohrbach Einstein and Newton argue over the Big Bang, Relativity, get drunk and fight. Einstein is spitting blood, headbutting Newton. Newton kicks Einstein in the balls. Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Natalie Wood, JFK in a field, sipping beer and eating cheesywotsits and bread. No mention of Rosebud.

All the former fame and glory descend into the still, unspeaking, unspoken centre. Rohrbach. The Universe's bibliothek of significance and insignificance. Appearance and deception, an unending dawn. The dawn of the undead. Immortality, unendingness, an unending chain letter, a diatribe stuffed into the Universe's gaping jaw. The Universe has its neat teeth snapped clean off, coal black residue of sidereal time, the Doppler EFFECT that takes you through the veil - reality, that shows you the other side of the Diaphane, but also a revolving geometric image, a multiverse in the palm of your hand.

A new creature is on the planet, he is the new master and everything he surveys he owns.

This creature, this illegitimate love child, philosophy's nightmare, religion's downside, the unrecorded LSD trip on a last night in some dimly-lit necropolis at the dead centre of Alpha Centauri. Baconism conquers the Universe in panoplay of regenbogen light and angelic harping. The Devil's big fat ass is kicked. The Devil's big fat ass is kicked, shove off Mr Devil we need Baconism, we want Baconism. We need a new dawn.

Leper Messiah, Napoleon in Rags, clutch of pop idols, shattered shards of song cliches, fragments of overheard, burbling, meaningless speech recorded on the 1000 CCTV cameras and microphones pointed at you as you stroll through the city centre to buy your last toilet roll, your last newspaper. You are the point of an urban myth, a nothing, a pale reflection of the State in its last throes of super-uber paranoia. Its very last territorial pissing.

A new creature is on the planet.


Ridiculous, swept away cold tidal forces, neaptide
Signposts sunken into hollow-faced beaches.
Retort of winds. Patterns of ancient seachanges.
The new order was chill as the sun, yellow,
A punctuation mark pyramid step moment, millenium
Away, your hollow winds, old cheek bones
Mummy cloth, dead fingers on dead hands.
You are the revolution I expected, a slight rebellion
Of leaves then the hush of seagulls to the south.
Are you a word from a dead language?
Or a slight stop on the tongue? A hesitation, a hand
A glimmer in the eye? Your tears, your voice?

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