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.
Deep Water Literary Journal
2017 - Issue 1 - February