All posts tagged: Kate O’Shea

‘The Somnambulist Who Stood Still’ by Kate O’Shea

The Somnambulist Who Stood Still   1. Odorous   Don’t warble. She smells you for her own. His scarf is a garrotte, her on all fours. Hors d’oeuvre. Opens no doors. Whores. Don’t warble. She is not what she seems. She is real, mean; eats dwarves, oscillates on fat fingers, odorous dreamer, osseous tail – a small pencil from a bookie shop that wriggled down the back of the couch – that is how he wrote poetry, that is how he got in trouble, we say they are witches, no one believes, no one believes, no one believes. She tells him he smells like cabbage. He smells like her Daddy.   2. Lady Gaga   She is twisting hay, going on about the caul, her helmeted head, preternatural, making up stories. An heirloom on paper. Making out with sailors, but she is drowning in wine and brine. Pretty unnatural if you axe me. Goodluck to her. Sleeveen. We ain’t too chummy with batshit crazy. Amen to that. Cross yerself. Her eyes are stains, the dark …

Kate O’Shea is a crack poet

Eggs   His poems are words upon words like eggs smeared with henshit. They could be free range or organic – who knows? Too calculated to be risky. I buy 30 for 1.99 in Liberties Market and dodge small boys with girls’ earrings who have never heard of Jackson Pollock but make an impression on the bottom of Francis Street and day-trippers, a stone’s throw from the Bad Art Gallery which is pretty all right if you like Mia Funk and well-built women doing dirty things with bananas. That’s the problem with men who are too into blowjobs more words upon words like eggs smeared with henshit – stylised, idolised.   Eggs is © Kate O’Shea   Tadpole   Misery heaped on misery like an Irish Sunday dinner. It’s hard to swallow; lives like this happen to people that sprouted dreams like Mr Potato head. Once fat faces chipped away by keeping body and soul a hive of useless colony, the queen bee washed-out and martyred. Even back then with bamboo rod and fishing net, catching …