The Mercy Waiting Room by Matthew Moynihan The light is burning bright and fierce and scarce. The noire has needled down into the stony soil. What is this alchemy? This magic. This sign of ‘human chain.’ This trembling teeter on the edge of ghosts and lamps. Fill me with your rays, a spectrum of spatial soul and coral reefs. You are the only high. No need for liquid, pill or herb. Roll me up and smoke me, burn me, take me into your lungs, where I repose and stretch the redness of your blood. Release me gently, back onto this tainted plain, with a clear eye to view this scented scape: Existential fire. A pure bliss of extrospective dust to be buried under six— And when you fail me, seem to sweat me out, to a vistual plain, eyes ajar and pupils stretched, let me Repose in you. With a wiped lens. Where the oyster’s world is yours.
Matthew Moynihan is a poet and writer living in Cork City in the Republic of Ireland. He has previously been published in various Irish journals including Silver Apples Magazine, and Brain of Forgetting and Stanzas. He has been a guest reader at the Psoken Wrod, the Quarter Park Party and the 96/1 Festival. He writes about his experiences of mental health, addiction and homelessness as a method of structuring the unstructured.