Fionn, Roíbéard Csengeri

imagine if you can Samuel Beckett, Sean Bonney, & bizzaro Steve Aylett shooting the gab togeva; thru the molecularly torn gut, all at once; not one letting the other punctuate the other’s sentence ever; bring to perfect, hand-drawn circular close, in a merry party of uncomfortable 3.

There’s the chemical generation category, which was about people dancing in clubs and somehow being surprised it didn’t bring down the government.”

*    *

Roíbéard Csengeri, the author s Gaelic name. “The situation of the world of letters in IReland is difficult to ascertain from here, from another shore which is itself a sandstorm devoid of true footing. The absence of any successful negation of of the cosy monad of the allegdly-Irish so-called short story is troubling, as is the total absence of any attempt to root out Catholicism in a violent manner since the report of Murphy, and its correlates. These and some things, such as the Aislinge MIc Con Glinne, Crime Bodge, Uncyclopedia, and The Lives of Irish Saints, have occupied my head for some time. In the land of an age-old and yet-to-be fully ousted occupier, this was written in bile & frenzy”

Only the very ugly is truly beautiful, and if the printed word has any meaning, then it must come from the very edge of fucky bum boo boo”

+        +

Head nearing the water, the nose is immersed in sleep, and chin in wake. Slow descent, gradually lower. If there is an end. Or it will be brief, a crisp slap of cold water splash. It is not known. Neither is preferable. Night approaches and the head reflects the water, staring down it moves its lips wordlessly, exploring the contours of its face in murky water. Morning approaches and it pivots back up, toates a trinkling of water, a bubbling of it. There is a steady stream somewhere. A leak or water being replenished. The surface still unmoved. Unbroken. This was how Fionn  perceived his mind.

#   ^   #

Hark, a bleeding heart so often the root of the first line-up; the whole system itself an elaborate cover for an alien post-punk group s debut EP; a collosal email checklist, churning through a prism of light, disambiguating fuck-all of the terms; a baton plonks onto a part-cunted palindrome of surfaces, Schrodinger s lolcat of categories and navigation templates al synergistic, fucking muliplicity; police are not allowed to refer to the memes if the case goes to court as a set A of strings (finite sequences) on a fixed alphabet α refined formally past misery, giving, having. A heart warm with such resilience that it can resist even its own yawns, tries to withdraw the thread it added to the infinite. Ponzi scheme of life, natural and historical, and, as punishment, gets what it always had, a life sentence. Agreements are put continually elsewhere and never delivered. This is not ineffible; the the adjecent. Go figure. Then come back.

Night lifts itself up & covers us until there is no air.

Jesus Christ, on a chariot aflame & drawn by white winged horses, descended upon His mother, member in hand.


  • Beart de réir ár mbriathar (Action to match our speech)

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