Peter O’Neill Irish poet

Poetry: Commuting with Baudelaire

Commuting with Baudelaire We are living in a time when there are no gentlemen. So, women stand for hours without being offered any seats. It’ s a privilege which they have laboured for and for centuries, It appears! Madness, I know, but you must respect them. As you watch their small fists tightening on the … Read more

Poetry: Peter O’Neill

Irish Rail Dublin, that old whore, with her piss -stained pavements Abruptly transforms into a woman of a certain station. Such are the, at once, brutal and subtle shifts where In an instant, Hell aligns in an altogether strict Congruence… Like when you climb aboard The final commuter train of the week on a Friday … Read more