Kevin Cahill

The Heretics & Cork Redivivus

Kevin Cahill

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The Heretics

So first blood to the bland,

bad sculpture

pulling at my niece like a poodle:

life-sized alabaster who this child

whispers to like she’s found her dog.

Mary – immovable, undead,

pig-ironed with presence

on a pistol-whipping mount

that would fly at me like a Dobermann.


Even still we can unpile

our unsaddled trinity through

the chapel’s grounds….subject to a sculpture

vaguely human, but god,

ejaculating a whitewash

that would obliterate our morning-afters,

and rubbers, our tarot packs and psychics,

acupunctured Buddhist bodies

on a bed, Bride-of-Sites

that penetrate us deeper

than seraphim,

and the case of the priest

breaking my faith in two,

coming at us

unexpectantly

with smiles for my niece,

who’s made him a tabernacle

with her cuticles.


*


All together the sculpture,

the priest, the little girl stand

armed, I think, chewing matches,

waiting for me to draw – my niece’s

little features catching fire

with God, screeching like an ordnance

from her alchemical pot,

calling for the right answers

from all that I have lost,


and covering me with her hands:

a clapboard chapel

of the Church – my church,

in which something boils so blackly,


trying for gold perhaps.



Cork Redivivus

A big-boned woman in leggings and a teeny tank-top 

with swallowed-into-the-skin

straps of a massive bra

worn with moonboots wheeling her bleach-headed grandmother

in front of you in the queue for chips with fifteen orders. 

 

A family engaged in a testicular effort

of eating, ordering stout-and-razza

along with their bituminous snack-boxes

under a fresco of peas, 

convulsing an endless engine

of mastication and eructation

as the horses and calves are frogmarched in the back door.

 

A city back to its best, its flaas of beowers, 

and langers: helium-high accents nibbling your ear

under the nose of  Bishop Lucey,

where life’s meaning dithers

between Deepak Chopra, and a cheesy wotzit. 

We drive souped-up two-seaters

in tracksuit bottoms

or get about on a robbed shopping trolley

from Dunnes, floating our way down the Blarney River

for a match

postponed due to rain. 



Kevin Cahill


Kevin Cahill, I am a poet from Cork City. I am a graduate of University College, Cork, and I have worked over the years for The European Commission, Cork Institute of Technology, and as a Reiki practitioner. I have been writing poetry for about 10 years and have been published in journals in Ireland, the UK, and the US, including Berkeley Poetry Review,

The Manchester Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The London Magazine, Agenda, Magma, The SHOp,The Edinburgh Review, gorse, The Glasgow Review of Books, The Oxonian Review and with The Stinging Fly.

I am presently seeking a publisher for my first book of poems.