Poem by Patrick Chapman
Patrick Chapman is a very intriguing writer, indeed. I've known him for a few years, since we met in Paris, after he'd contributed work for the 100 Poets Against The War anthologies. I'd read his early poetry in the collection The New Pornography, and enjoyed his dark sensibility, which seemed, in its style and themes, so refreshingly un-Irish.
Chapman is one of Ireland's most versatile younger writers, equally interested in creating award-winning science fiction, short films, and widely-published poetry.
He has a fine, cinematic eye for the disturbing image, and his work often concerns itself with territory that might be loosely described as Cronenbergian (with a side-trip down Lynch Boulevard). He's been doing some good readings lately, and has a new book forthcoming from Salmon. It'll be his best, I believe. He's only in his mid-30s and just hitting his stride now. The link to his blog is where you'd expect to find it. Unlike in Chapman's work, where you must expect the unexpected.
I’ve taken all the vodka and the wheat beers are all gone.
The pills are working, tiny fogs.
I guess I will be leaving here, this curious fall night.
Got anything to say before I go?
You could have left a thread for neutered Theseus to follow but
That night you were both Ariadne and the Minotaur.
poem by Patrick Chapman