The Book of Invasions
Chapter 2
Tara Telephone Book of Invasions Chapter 2
From a private collection. Posted with kind permission.
Cover art from The Book of Invasions: A monthly broadsheet
published by Tara Telephone, Eamon Carr,
Peter Fallon, editors.
Title Design by
Jim Fitzpatrick (Two Bare Feet)
Typeset by Irish Graphic Design, and Printed by Ben-Day Press, Ltd., Dublin 2
Text in illustration: "I, the Galaxy Master! The only living entity against whom all your Strength cannot prevail!"

"Prepare for
Continual Fire sequence!"
Selected poems: to dance on your coffin

flashing black
his patent shoes tap
an unknown rhythm
in dark top-hat
coat-tails a-flap
he steps out alone
while kicking back
swoops like a bat
and the candles go out
tonight remark
the music is dark
for the devil to dance on your coffin

Eamon Carr , Dublin


Bohemian Girl

I could use the telephone
Or walk the streets
In search of you ,
Could ask the poormen
And the beggars
If you've stopped and
Talked with them;
I could offer rewards and
Bribe for information,
Piece together jigsaw clues
And follow your footprints;
Eventually
I would catch a glimpse of you
From somewhere outside,
But instead I sit by the window
Of a grey wall-papered room,
Staring through the dust and cobwebs,
Hoping that you'll re-appear.

Peter Fallon , Dublin
Poet on the Midnight Sea-Front

Poet on the midnight sea-front
Wide-eyed,
staring at unblinking lights,
waiting for the line that
never comes.

Below him,
on the shore, an old man
with a dog, walks slowly,
head stooped to eternal sands,
His sad eyes full of yesterday's sight,
lives with the dead who have left
him behind.

The sea bird's savage cry
dying on the wind
Screams,
Poet write your poem
but do not speak of joyous things
tell of those who walk alone
Like Soyinka
the Black Christ Crucified
In the eyes of a thousand
whites

Bushwasha, the Arab,
wandering,
in a desert of barren minds,
or Hutchinson who fled to the Sun
from the warmth that came too late.
Feel their fire in your veins
do not look for your past in
the sea,
Write of this world around
there are too many people called
me.

His spray wet hair blown wild
a thousand dreams in his head
He turns and walks into
a new tomorrow.

Joe Taylor , Dublin