As an avid fan of poetry, an audience/reader of it and failed bore at moi
crux mis-match of memory exiting with no prior warning, the only act
instinct and exit, feeling and being the main idiotic presence non can
figure the poetic point of, until the return grudge match, pointlessy
failing in the most spectacular way, unaided by script. Not something many
script-only poets bother with.

Mairead is one of these, yet she sings a true note of poetic utterance live,
spreading her version of the Mairead Love thang, thye self con and delusion
that we are any good. Mairead has this in spades live, she is the global
banner hacking it out on the NE seaboard, in a place she poetically claimed,
after lots of graft and the perfect pre-poetry career of poorly paid jobs
where real humanity lives and dies in the flesh. Byrne is red hot, she cares
not for her audience and reads for the sidhe alone, primary and first in a
trimutive of nomen practice one makes up as they bore. 

Moi most curatorial effortlessly learned colleague, take the mic, talk up
reality and praise it, even if it was not the orgasm in print it can be
rendered as, the worth of ones craft is verse, the taking of inner quotidian
whim and flitting fancy, to make this moment quotable, sidhe takes moi out
at dawn and moi must doi on ones ass, the knowing ones i would be very
honoured and proud, toadying like never before, should Mairead bestow upn
moim the love of self and process, craft and the relationship between that
and ones trueness of their pure inner note, the one we are born with as star
bores Mairead, you and I together tripping beyond a fabtastic laddette loada
 shite, acting the bollix in print and getting away with live and in a heap,
collapsed.

Ones reality is irrelevant, as plot is all it is, and the best fictions make
themselves up in a moment, onpage, buzzing with one of four human joys, as
per Amergin's take on literate Art:

"joy of fitting poetic frenzy from the grinding away at the fair nuts of the
nine hazels on the Well of Segais in the Sìdhe realm." which "cast
themselves in great quantities like a ram's fleece upon the ridges of the
Boyne" and "moving against the stream swifter than racehorses driven in the
middle-month on the magnificent day every seven years.

Poetry is the only logical answer to ones happiness colleagues gassing on
full time floe, ear cocked to now found slipping easy, relatively,
irrevearant speaking as AE, ae, sidhe of moi faery lore in print is all
verse is innit lovers, so arise from the ashes of an all unfeeling crown
sacked and pyschic realm plundered for Love and booty, rare gems of real
lore. The poem on my blog i created today with a process few practice, real
poetic lore, an absent gravitas balancing this irrelevance of prose/pom
joined ta the hip not to swing, but hinge and cut, whatever is decided on
home turf, on-page in ones unique way, being an honest bore with few real
friends, but plenty willing to love one in print and person, as a full time
nightmare obsessed by setting new poetic standards and benchmarks, for bob
and the new national poetry holding area, where all poetry published in
britain since 1912 is now free to read fpor any passing scanger and tramp
aflame with unquenchabkle thurst for the full hit real deal thing of 95 year
old tradition here sialors. We are talking a lot of very very good and great
voices, all a canon and lore unto themselves, and i am thinking here of
course, about Milton, the primary example of a poets rage quenched aflame in
time chance, accident and nature conspiring to blind him, he who dealt in
interior monologue, urging whatever he did in prose. whipping and whupping,
a pawn poet born for the role, poetry at the most terrible price, Yeatsean
beauty about it, the magnitude of Mairead's mask is majestireal