Matthew Moynihan


St Patrick’s Bridge


His eyes flash like a camera,

wading through rippled blood

for immersions navy, deep and



Trickled tears fill the bottle from

which he gawks, from which he’s  

trapped, from which he swims to

grip the edges.


Digits slip as he wails furiously,

fury that burns for greener grass,

as if a boiling, empty carnival.


Strife-born and fruitless,

there he floats, warped  

like a gaping cage.


Some glass is not for smashing.


Spiders salivate on a meal of  

nerves, knelling for the ears  

of phantom ideation.


He takes a sip, lets the droplets

catalyse his shame, then ponders

the sail of air then smash.


Twenty feet into the black.


The trembles rise as he sinks  

into a world of warming scotch.


He can hear the bells ringing now,

galling him – ‘put your message in

that bottle then dive, dive into the  



For ignorance is bliss and death

has no name.


The ants are crawling now

as he climbs upon the ledge.


Every sense heightened in the ultimate.


His mind azure as he screams into the  

icy depths of the River Lee.


The harbour blue and waiting.


Blue – as he’ll be found.






Matthew Moynihan is a poet and writer living in Cork City in the Republic of Ireland. He has previously been published in Brain of Forgetting, Stanzas, Silver Apples Magazine, Increature, and the Ó Bhéal 5-Word Anthology. Matthew is also a Director/Founder of Spotlight Poetry in Cork and has performed his work as a guest reader at the Psoken Wrod, 96/1 and the Quarter Park Party.