David O'Mahony

To min precious cup I wet min lips.
And gorge ‘pon the keeper in min midst
And woe betide man that befallen to thee,
Should come astride wisdom as well as gliw.
...

Minted music sweeps vociferously past unharried ants
Supple beats cry whale-like amid the microcosmic vistas
Conic soldiers stretch luminous orange in scented union
Turquoise skies emerge past crystal balls in miniature
...

In summertime abandon
sweet wafts of unknown airs
caress his face.
...

The anguish of pain, the embarrassment of existence, the self-critical eye withers the within; a broken soldier.
No longer can the balmy cheerfulness mask the untempered hollowness of being.
Alas! Hollowness of being! Could it be true?
Do I really exist?
...