Our myths collect top-shelf dust,
And I am farming black holes in my living room,
Because today the gates of heaven have opened,
Revealing a grasping prehensile maw.
And I know there are forty three years until the end of the world,
And that although the thornbush may answer in pricks,
The fragrant stars have left my lips dry in anticipation
Of a pleasure that will never be forthcoming,
And my hips shiver in memory of a thrust.
Oisín Breen is a 36 year-old poet, part-time academic in narratological complexity, and financial journalist. Dublin born Breen's debut collection, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten’ was released Mar. 2020 by Edinburgh’s Hybrid Press. Primarily a proponent of long-form style-orientated poetry infused with the philosophical, Breen has been published in a number of journals, including the Blue Nib, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, Modern Literature, La Piccioletta Barca, the Bosphorus Review of Books, Mono, and Dreich magazine.