ditch,

the poetry that matters

Michael Andrew

Michael Andrew is a full time student at NUIG studying Philosophy and Celtic Civilisation. His work has appeared in Blue and Yellow Dog, Shamrock, Mancini press, Guerilla Pamphlets, Otoliths, Lyrical Passion et.al. He can be found here: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=622160272 ; or alternatively you can visit him for a cup of tea in Galway.

catfish animism
                                                          
                                                                                   n tfing
                 +   mre
                         +    r                                                               geez louise
    +
             = thn vlgr

    i dnt fnk                                                                 sty      
             bnk wll prc8                                      sfe *
       plnsv                                                                                                                   s d
                ctfsh anmsm
                                                                                                                                  pp
     i nd m8yp mscrh                                                                           *
        ind qff                                                                                                   *
         hewlsng                                                                        *
                   frme                                                                                            *
                                                                                                          *
        hehs
                   to

 

 

untitled

i had no choice but to wade into the surf my purple incredible hulk t-shirt clung to my body brutalised by the atlantic those hills had no interest in me but that line of cars did especially the red jap car full of honduran scholars take that flag down cried a jellyfish but its heart was already in my black shiny umbro shorts

 

untitled

The trout wrapped in newspaper. River and newspaper ink. One could follow its journey with a nose. The tall privets that engulf Mrs Riley’s cauldron of doom. Melodramatic nostalgia. Trick or treat. She gave us fifty pence and a: don’t come here again. The rose bust snagged my winter jacket and I cut myself whilst releasing its grip. The traffic light gave chase.

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                                                                                                                                October 14, 2011