Three Poems by Roibeard Ui-neill


*3cc’s of blue-collar psycho-babble*

“… God help me, and God damn it…” Jack Kerouac

Yeah, where the rubber meets the road, you can find a raccoon
digitally accomplished enough to roll a joint- we’ll smoke
until we have black rings around our eyes, be alter egos of

the man in the moon,
roll slowly sweet jalopy,
white tachyons split
on the windshield: snowflakes, fluff,
dandelion detritus

huffing & puffing Voidward.
With what religion do coal-eyed
& carrot-nosed snowmen
warm their mittens?
& have they ever experienced

dark-ringed nipples melting in their mouths?

 

*9cc’s of blue-collar psycho-babble*

“There isn’t anyone whose death I haven’t longed for.” –E.M. Cioran

The flap of an envelope is coated with the gum to close
a tongue’s self-inflicted paper cut. It may be the beauty
of Anti-Flag’s Canadian lilt when they sing “Fuck You!”

My neurons are clogged-
i have no nanomachines
to seek & destroy
the exoskeletons of
wasps smothered between panes of

pain - our lives should be as intense
as ultraviolet &
infrared - our love
should break the glass in museums-
hemogenesis

no longer on display,

all of us
tumors
communicating
by red blood cell courier,

determined to give the Ephemeral Nihilist
who decided navels where sphincters
incapable of a graceful exit,

a taste of His own medicine.

*14 cc’s of blue-collar psycho-babble*

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind.”
-old proverb

Yet, here we are, scrapes & scabs popping off a bright idea
once in a great while, be it the geometry of a satellite’s flight,
or the surgical precision of a quadruple by-pass.

Somatocentric
is the technical term for
the awareness of
our bodies in space &
time. Pneumatocentric is

the technical term given
to the soul resenting
our blunt bodies.
Peace shall the 2 never know.
Mothers secreting

antibodies
to destroy the rooted fetus
before it’s ensouled.
The hand wiping the end of
the alimentary canal

paints “American Gothic”
or writes The Age Of Reason.
Tousles a child’s hair.
Maybe that’s the obvious truce.
Until we mature,

transcend our flesh,
become entities of
pure energy
laughing at our former gripes
against gravity,

retaining fond memories
of its tug of war
with sperm, egg, & soul.

roibeard Ui-neill