by Ian McHugh
Ian McHugh gazes at things, often – when not playing in converse-gaze band A Plastic Rose. Caught pondering at his converse more often than not, he genuinely spends his time gazing around at many of life’s other mysteries. Once he gazed at himself. That, I’ve often thought, was how the universe was created.
High Water Mark
Once I loved derelict buildings.
Their lonely air of gravity,
Their dead eyed consent.
Now they snap at our disdain,
Their scorn weighs a ton.
New ones turn greyscale on O’Connel Street.
Scratch card scraping our hopes,
When ye were our age, you shut the pubs
on Sundays for your god.
Now we shut them again, for ours.