Oxen of the sun
birthing canal
Wilde on his rock
colouring banal

Bram stoking fires
Behan's door ajar
Kavanagh with kindling
hailing Synge from afar

Yeats in Ithicabra
polishing his horse
Beckett in Bray
waiting in morse

Joyce yet awanders
ash thatched to hand
plitting a plot, plotting a plan

there is more to loving than having sex
so much more to hugging than french kissing
in passion I cry, be my love always

not just my lover

make me rain in the late hours of midnight
let my heart sing bump bump tonight my love
the pressure builds inside my limp body

listen to bones crack in my inner tighs
feel joint slip out of place welcoming you
stand up as flood gates burst open suddenly

The hot steamy masses flow freely from
passion bellowing everytime we make love
in passion I cry, be my love always

Sitting on the edge
of the railroad tracks
watching the trains
going by

Thinking about
the woman
I left behind

Closing my eyes
she is in my arms
I can feel
her shoulder length black hair
blowing in the wind
brushing against my chest

As the hem
Of the dress she wears
Flutters in the gusts
Created by the passing trains

This sweet perfume
of an aroma
emanates from her into my nostrils
bottling up inside my nose
so I can carry it with me
where ever I go

The rock on which I foundered
has rollen down the hill
to rest upon the Styx dark bank
where the waters yet run still

The coal-shell chain
that cloaked my face
lays shattered in the moss
gathered by my tortured hand
to pay the fare across

The silent sighs that echo
from the endless night below
strap themselves to my shame
as He begins to row

Hooded in a rosewood mist
from crown to rotten sole
he points a leaden finger
toward a swooping, lifeless crow