Kevin Cahill: ‘Time in Time’ and ‘Mud in your Eye’


Time in Time

This is the time in time
when the cloud of the big bed
absorbs everything. When hardly one

raindrop of a big toe
disgorges itself to morning.
Or flounders on the gangplank

a knapped-off divot
facing salt. But turns back
to incorporate itself

in the big mound.
To what an amazement then
this morning tumbling

waters (seas of each toe)
fumbling out of the thunderheads
into my monkeysuit … a text message …

first piece of concrete all Monday—
helping me into the solid sleeves
of day, saying she wants to share her life

in love with me (or at least look me over)
at half past seven tonight …
bunnybelle leaping sinuously

from water, with a fluffy scut,
or muntjac lovely words in water
among wattled jacanas.

Kevin Cahill



Mud in your Eye

I expect death is something in life
you experience much like a fall
from a bicycle, on a wet day:

feeling the hurt
before you hit the road.
In this way you appreciate why the woman

sinking spirits is physically extinguishing
her nervous system … sucking on a tall bottle.
Or why I am conscious of the sound

of the coffin-cart and death-knell
before I venture into the saloon,
to kick the bucket with Ms Bones …

ably basting my whole senses in rum swizzle,
boilermaker, U-boot, applejack,
Irish Car Bomb, pisco and swimming then

like a pisshead towards the awaiting tryst.
Here, we’re plastered enough … Whoot …
Are you …? Hi.

Hello. You’re? three sheets to the wind,
dead from the neck up,
You’re Kevin? I’m hardly descended into matter.

Oceanic sound of leaves’ lovely music
together in the oak trees outside—a boy blackbird
wondering upon the lovely lady blackbird

looking so illustrious with her billing shape
seen through the topiary toad-plant
on the table carafe.

Kevin Cahill

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