Scott McKendry is currently studying toward a Ph.D. in poetry at Queen’s University Belfast. His work has been included in the future always makes me so thirsty: New Poets from the North of Ireland (Blackstaff, 2016). His poems have also been published in the North, the Tangerine, Public Illumination Magazine, the Manchester Review, Magma, Cyphers, and Poetry Ireland Review.
I was daubing s onto our front step with the blood and guts of clover mites
when Speccy Rab headbutted BA—which didn’t end well for Rab’s glasses.
You can go down for a jouk, I want to say, a gander
at the greylags on the green
that’s not so much a field as a grassy space
where the flats once stood.
The Earth spun on the Universal fanfare and the three of us were settled on
the settee when the doorbell sung Big Ben’s [sic] dong, dang, ding, dung.
It wasn’t so much that we burnt tires, releasing a toxic stew of nasties,
or that each Eleventh Night, as a spat crescendoed, some fella got battered
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