Frank Corcoran

The Holy Season of Flap is almost upon us. How hang on to which Skellig Rock in the December moving tide of lived temporality ? The wash ?
Get back to work. Sculpt. Fashion, chip away at the old block. As daily, daily .Do not let go in the Season. No . ( No
exclamation marks either ! )
Serenity we sing. Tide and time wait not for the carol singer. Lusty humbug threatens with treacly singing and the red wrapping paper industry smiles.
The West’s asleep, all our myths are tired myths. Cease yawning above the deep, the reindeers’ sleep, glee, holy holly. Keep the tones uncontaminated – but how ? Hone the haiku pen, I suppose, a harmless enough ploy.