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.