Ian O'Reilly, Gwaylga, Soogra, ogiss alawn Kawka Millish

Ian O'Reilly, Gwaylga, Soogra, ogiss alawn Kawka Millish

Irish, play, and a coupla sweets, please. There is no life of anyone faithfully recorded. Yet here, in A5, Ian O'Reilly's colourless green poems sleep furiously. Manoeuvre the artery of his bastardised times new roman lyrics into your mouth. You can't hide beneath the hair on your head, the albatross is now a seagull and it's flying off. Be carried away by the multi-coloured pastel-truth. 

UK, four squid:

IRELAND, five euros:

Tim Atkins: THE WORLD'S FURIOUS SONG FLOWS THROUGH MY SKIRT

An uncarefully chosen extract might read:

FIRST VOICE: Wise words, my dear Jeremy. There are always buttons to be scrubbed. It will be hours until the arrival of the furies bearing wormwood, woodbines, and sandwich-spread sandwiches spread thinly upon thinly-sliced slices of white bread—for immediate consumption. What are you doing here upon this stage bearing an implausible likeness to the Liver Building? Tell us again who chained you here and what you would like to be doing.

FOR THE UK: