Do they think they can silence me with puny slings and arrows? Mind your eyes with that glass. Coming through! Fire in the hole...! I hope the drink hasn’t ruined the matches. Drums of fuel, chainsaws, a pick-axe, God bless the happy woodsman. Ha ha ye philistines, I'll tear ye limb from limb, slash your tyres, make crystals of your searchlights. Screams, the agony of bones, the laughter of the chainsaw. Look out, ye bastards, here I come, the Kenwood Chef of Poetry.

The Old Chapel. The Men’s Confraternity. My father singing out of tune at Benediction.

Wait till I get out of this jacket. Jesus, that’s sweat... is that blood? There it is... good old Crested Ten. Three cheers for John Jameson. Up Cork. C'mon the rebels. Look, the pariah poet, gnawing every drop of goodness from the pocket. You aint nothin' but a hound dog. A foundry. Did I say that? I'm ashamed of myself. Cheese-and-wine poetry. It's a miracle I haven't lost the bag. Where’s the matches? The memory card. Her First Communion picture. Mind the blood! Look at those eyes. They could be mine. Her poor eyes could be mine. Five years writing to the Minister. Five years crying before Councillors and TDs. But I sorted them out. If you're looking down on me now, Mammy, you'll see, I sorted them out. By Jesus, I got revenge. The house never the same. Day and night as sad a place as Lourdes. The half ring. The Samaritans' number. Love me tender, love me true.

The Electric Cinema. Elvis close enough to kiss. Jack-the-Lamp prowls the aisle, a walking-stick of light beside him.

The things that come into your head. What's next? Spin the wheel. Fingers on the buzzer. Come on down! Are you ready, words? Start walkin'!

A report has just come in that a man has been found dead in the maximum security wing of Portlaoise prison.

Poor Daddy. The things that come into your head. How did I end up in a wood? Was I drawn by some atavistic memory? Did one of my ancestors flee here after 1798, yeoman blood still glistening on his pike? Who fears to speak of '98? I'll tell you one thing. That bastard will never speak again. Did Mammy's people set lime for birds, scrabble in the dirt during the blackest days of '47? Where were you in 1916? Up in a tree in Togher Wood. continue