Alvin

Who hasn't thought, alone and perplexed, thinking of what you've bought, over a drink of wine, the burdens of text, Birthdays and Valentines, what we buy that's caught, down pipelines of the vexed, wonder what we're doing, with women Online, who will pop up next, and ask for our time, generally divorced, light through a dark vest, drunk and overwrought, it's me at the shopping mall, staring at the rest, will anyone give a call, draw a bundle of noughts, these compatability tests, supposed to be joyous, just like all the rest.

Asia

She has such a giving way, she brings me Bollinger, on Christmas Day, what can we do alone, without repentance, in circumstances of our own, wine pours down my face, like a Christening, she fires the Angel cake, are we here or gone, she hasn't got a pot to piss in, we laugh at the unknown, choose to live or waste, cash our lives in richness, called upon to pray, her slumber a loving say, like rhythms of the sea, and the trips i'd made, my greatest days, awash in her forgiveness, are enough to celebrate, that beautiful spirit.

Alex

Can you remember the sea, the swell and the spray, our dance of Thebes, now the kids have flown, gone away, look after their own homes, we dance on the beach, at the end of the day, all our loving at Crosby, every part of the gloam, suddenly drained, and we're alone, you grab my feet, guide me through the play, my troubles ease, in the wind blown lee, I hold your face, forget the disease, catch horizons like these, you wonder why i pray, buy me chips and peas help me snort cocaine.

Andrea

Your house beyond the dunes, roses billow beneath the sky, will death bring you truth, all poets die intestate, however things may lie, throwing rages at their mates, even God is not immune, but there's a love inside, he won't be duped, fire burns in the grate, don't tell me how they cried, anchors bind my feet, it isn't me you fool, dying in the tide, don't you know he loves you, all our different blues, left hanging out to dry, all the lovers too, come to say toodle doo, their pillowed troubles light, a relieved and laughing crew, debts gone from their eyes.

Artie

By a train last night, i swore faithfully to Jesus, no more of that all right, a woman travelling to Naples, rocked me gently, and said everything's OK, she talked of a writer, called Andrea Camilleri, and kissed me quietly, I take photographs with lights, I see what others don't see, how the girls have died, when you know they're made, glamorous, perfect, serene, it makes you scared, to see them without life, don't mess those heeby jeebies, my soul strung out tight, beg help on St Anthony's quay. to a perfect nought, every part of thought, in their eyes amour, fresh linen and Eau de Cherie, the soul of lost hordes, all of them taught, by the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, I see the poor, cross Catherine Street

Alan

In any place, when you figure it, there's always the Old Lady, boiling washing bits, while a hoover gyrates, and all the new gadgets, that go with a living wage, her hands can fit, sitting here in outer space, the universal launderette, spins before my face, music from the Web, rolls across the port frame, hey man change the cassette, it'd be a cheek to say, man what is that, the earth hesitates, like it has a stitch, is not me whose afraid, that love doesn't exist, my wife and my mate, are to blame for this.

Anna

By the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, I saw the poor, cross Catherine Street, in their eyes amour, fresh linen and Eau de Cherie, the soul of lost hordes, some drive a Chevvy, they laugh as they walk, who needs a dime, when they are brought, to the Sultan's party, all of them taught, you don't need an inquiry, when all truth is caught, then buried, and every part of thought, has been divvied, to a perfect nought, please make them identify, the apertures, between moon and the sea.

Aoife

Sometimes with the spray, you just don't know, what you have to pay, the same with dough, and other times dates, don't know where it goes, just when you pray, you need a blow, another one turns up late, how they break my bones, think if I hesitate, I can get out alone, forget about finding a mate, sunlit hills come with stones, maybe I'll have to wait, need lightness not moans, wine to sip not gyrate, around crowded bars to atone, stating its a happy day, listening to song, a cigarette to create, an atmosphere of home.

Anais

In a supermarket yard, lovely face wretched, torn by pain and dark, naked not decent, the trolley for a cross, next to where they take bets, a spirit without spark, laid there to rest, its a rare clerk, not put to the test, when clearing the park, to be at their best, she works at Primark, and shops in Netto, but it was so stark, she could never forget it, it didn't soar like a lark, near to the convent, is there ever a chart, to give us a movement, bring food to no marks, each of us a vagrant.

Alicia

Who do I want to be, Rab or Phillip or Elaine, Seamus or Frankie, if I let them stay, to warm the ashtrays, around my fire, will they go on their way, then I realise, with the crackle of leaves, listen how they, talk beneath September trees, about being free, running with the sea, splashing in the spray, from the Atlas breeze, to the great bulging Cape, mighty rivers unleash, tears across my face, i'm telling you baby, you're a fool to go away, the cafe'where i keep, guard to burn the flame. a leather glove you had nowhere to go the year of the blow the year Lady died, set the doves free, the colour of the need

ava

Ice and blue morning, colors of the Argentine, between Me, and the amber need, Ohio under snow, geese and barren tones, my hair appears to grow, white on my shoulder, sloping, honking, to the New Year, am I lucky, or just at ease, why I fought so hard, to stay with you, standing in the yard, like a GI goon, you sang to us, back in Brooklyn, the year Lady died, it's quiet here now, fifty years later, i still hear the laughter.

Alma

Mary the Catholic Queen, would not let saliva, be spat into the spleen, for son James's baptismal, common for left footers, and Scots at that time, I stood by an unlit lampin, waiting for my wife, she never turns to dreams, such a palaver, waiting by the Tweed, like a Sunday chancer, a tree a lamp an uncertain weave, near Stirling, what a fucking heave, thinking of Alexander Trocci, his New York leather jacket, and Jock Stein's mate, who ran the Italian cafe,' and mourned each day, Who brought us down, i wanted to shout.

Alana - the new 22's,for the salad of the bad cafe

Smoking a lucky star, chasing numbers, going out the door ajar, the same calendar, my daughter says 'i wonder', she's a great heart, then she bought a car, the Rotunda, won't see her park, right from the start, so bewildered, she jumped the bar, my Ma, ten years after, i still hear your laughter, from Ireland and me Da, grateful to be a juggler, under oranges in a barn, love never hungers.