Icarus Vol. 72 No. 3 (2022) by Icarus Magazine

i c a r u s

72.3

ICARUS MAGAZINE

VOLUME LXXII, ISSUE III

Akashic Facelift by Catherine Ding

EDITORIAL –

ALL OPINIONS R MY OWN, RETWEETS R NOT ENDORSEMENTS

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This isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever made. I don’t cry when I look at it. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever made was in senior infants. It was a sunflower made of dry foods, glued to cardboard that was spray painted gold

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College says take down pride flags. No. College says put UP pride flags. Learning and growing. Reflecting on ‘values’.

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I thought the last editorial would deliver something coherent.

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My mom’s friend’s cat’s name is Fish and he has to wear a cardboard cone on his head so that he doesn’t chew on his own infected tail.

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But if anything this is way less coherent.

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My mom did a montessori diploma and quit teaching it because she realised she fundamentally disagreed with the philosophy of montessori.

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Literal murderer on college board has a legally acquired handgun. bails himself out for 100k.

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Kids need to explore, she said, montessori is oppressive.

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ECHR intervenes on Britains ‘Rwanda Plan’. Boris Johnson says they will consider leaving European Human Rights Commission. Flight grounded.

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Mikhail Bakhtin allegedly smoked the entire manuscript of his magnum opus because he ran out of rolling papers during WW2 paper shortages in Moscow. I need a rollie exactly this badly.

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Ireland’s Oldest Literary Magazine.

— Gabi & Alex Icarus is proud to present lyrics and notes from Jinx Lennon alongside the work of Trinity students.

CONTENTS 1

right here right now A Night In Arbor Harbor I’m Younger Now Than I Was Then CONFECTIONER’S COMMUNION Monsoon pacing Bat Conversation in the Back Row of a Lecture Hall

Phelim Ó Laoghaire Jack Torres Jack Torres

6 8 10

Aoibh Manning

Manasvini Duggal Ava Chapman Seirce Mhac Conghail Maitiú Charleton

12 13 15 16

The Island The Fancy Dunnes in Stephen’s Green Saint Patrick’s Day, Farrelly’s Pub Castlepollard, March 17 2022 My Kentucky Avenue Good company for walking Jinx Lennon border schizo Cosmic FFFolk singer a.k.a Free State Nova I will be a big light The night the murder car of death drove into Dundalk town

Jess Sharkey Sarah Moran

18 20

Nigel McKeon

Charlotte Moore Hugh McStravick Sara Jane Hopkins featured: David “Jinx” Lennon

23 25 26 27

featured: David “Jinx” Lennon featured: David “Jinx” Lennon

28 32

CONTENTS

My Complice ultimology She eats her fingers in Latin babies Waldeinsamkeit C.E. Epilogue

Catherine Ding Ava Chapman Khushi Eloise Rodger Coco Yael Goran Oona Camille Fionn O’Drabhláis

38 40 41 42 44 45 47

opposite: right here right now Phelim Ó Laoghaire

A Night In Arbor Harbor

the red says to the orange, “howdy” To which orange replies “you talked to blue?” “she moved you didn’t hear? to be closer to Sgt” Sgt bows to blue, his coattail poking out “pardon me dearest, I’ve had quite a day” She adores his formal stature so she softens, Blinking at his spherical hand she asks “any walnuts today?” East of them lies an ocean so still it could be painted glass Down south, the big rock candy mountain The backpacking penguin pauses at the police point “officer” he pants “have you seen a red peak, I seem to have lost it” Stuck in silent stoicism he swishes his sword toward the horizon The angel watching from on high adjusts her necklace “heaven is cheap these days” she grumbles gracefully she floats over branches and clutter to the flickering neon of an “open” sign The white bear roars in welcome and the snowman chuckles shyly, cheeks rosy from the pack of his punch She hangs her point shoes on a nearby stick and covers her face

The cubist cow’s lazy eye rests on what seems to be a barbers pole His shepherd stands guard nearby distracted by the plush man frozen in silent song Santa hurries by unnoticed and the globe sways lightly in its turn Somewhere an elephant is trumpeting a bell tinkles a star twinkles and the eaves and boughs settle for the night

Jack Torres

I’m Younger Now Than I Was Then

You were holding a bowl and I tripped and smashed it on the ground And I walked away

And I watched you walk away

And we went about our day. Sometime later I bent down On my knee To pick up some pieces and see if I could put them back together I was so focused Dead set on this bowl I didn’t see you sitting back to back with me picking up the other shards I don’t know who bent down first to pick up the pieces I don’t know who walked away faster But with brushes of silk

And dust from the moon

Jack Torres

They set to work

CONFECTIONER’S COMMUNION

Piped icing balustrades, perfect meringue peaks Mirror-glazed marble like a lacquered éclair Sun pours down shimmering through sweet wrapper windows, sick sweet honey dripping on the congregation kneeling below in the chocolate lattice pew – a big curly wurly. Let them have their cake and eat of it the body of Christ, borne of the Virgin Marie Antoinette. Wafer dissolves on the tongue, butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth.

Aoibh Manning

Monsoon

i. monsoon doves creep slowly back home monsoon loves break out; oh, how lovely it is to be alone. to watch the clouds fall from the skies they so ardently adore; to flee from the tangible to the obscure // i imagine it takes uncertainties to be that bold ii. august’s colours fall like silk on our dirt pink walls, the sunshine like little coffee drops. and all around, dotted sprigs of adelines around twine-wrapped earthen pots. washed away, i find that you are nowhere to be found // i imagine it takes faith to love the rains behind the shroud

Manasvini Duggal

pacing

i. fill my mouth with honey in the mornings i crave sweet sweet SWEET and unthinking crawl towards anything that mimics that chocolate, honey, syrup, candy, fruit, warmth i stole your orange juice from the fridge but you cannot cross-examine me because my mouth is stuck on everything i’ve not yet swallowed ii. trying to write about sweet things rather than the usuals loss or mothers or blood lust lost conversation where we are all better people sugar-crusted

iii. candied peanuts in my pocket cardamom coffee stirring burnt caramel taste cruel eyelashes stuck together from salt and tears and four days of rain at the party we list our accomplishments already too drunk pour the sugar water to dilute the liquor & margareta shouts ‘ava has not cried in six days!’

Ava Chapman

Bat

Between years stacked and troved a creature uncoils without warning, tremoring among monuments, blood amid dust. She finds him in the attic. Child-bat, wrinkled as cream, he sucks dully on air. She calls him Kaspar. He is an infant, immobile. Cannot substitute with a crawl the cutting triumph of flight. He clings like lint to her clothes and her hair When she laughs he keens tunelessly by her side. We all dote on Kaspar, his budding fangs. We cradle him close, letting milk drip from our fingers into his barbed mouth. Loving the things that will one day hurt us Willing them to grow.

Seirce Mhac Conghail

Conversation in the Back Row of a Lecture Hall

Do you think the boy with the ash Wednesday thingie likes me? The - ha, he’s probably not gay? Why? I mean he’s hot no? He’s got a face that looks like it couldShh I think this part’s important, sorry I actually don’t think he’s hot. Look at his shoes Hmmm, I like him You can go for him He’s too far away, I’m hardly going to be able to whisper to him from here I think this is a nice spot for a budding romance I want to kiss him in the toilets same -

Maitiú Charleton

opposite: The Island Jess Sharkey

The Fancy Dunnes in Stephen’s Green

I go on a break to fancy Dunnes, the one in Stephen’s Green In through the middle-aged south Dublin clothes section and joining the queue of heaven bound shoppers lining up between the bars Stairs framing us on either side! Massive metal things, all shiny and gold! And we descend into the beautiful abyss of fruits and cheesemongers and bread Glowing peach green sushi stand and glossy pastries sitting fat and happy All wicker brown and earthy! And poking about the meats — or is it the Easter eggs — I swear I see Allen Ginsberg Lonely old grubber The baldy back of his speckled head, hair about the ears as the tufts of a baby eagle Scarf, coat, wrinkled and worn, dug up, resurrected, alive And I’m peering at him now, pantomiming around the corner of the vegetable fridge Everyone else unaware that we are in the presence of persona And as he picks up an orange from the low basket and sniffs it — He turns his gaze upward to mine, excessive lips and nose, deep open eyes too much white Staring like a cow through jam jar glasses, squinting, then a hurried impatient beckoning Putting down the yoghurt to counsel a young fledgling like myself So I scurry to his lean in and musty smell and he: “I suppose we have to leave That’s the way it goes Right?” And so I clutch my empty tote bag and follow his lead As he climbs the frozen escalator back out, taking the steps two at a time Past the juicy avocados and red sale signs and people swimming in fruit and cheese An energetic old man leading me up and up from the golden bliss of consumerism Up that holy escalator into dreaming artistry.

Sarah Moran

Saint Patrick’s Day Farrelly’s Pub Castlepollard March 17 2022

Barside sideline: All the old men on stools joined to the bar at the elbow, Sitting in places they were probably grown in. Two TVs playing the scenes at Croke Park Later on they’ll show the horses. A third (equally big) In the corner by the door, Playing Judge Judy. Outside parade sounds, We’ll go out and see it soon. Just waiting for Kenneth to pull the pints. The air is cold enough to wish I’d brought a jacket But not cold enough to make me regret it. The tractors do their laps around town, People on floats try and peddle stoves. We’re stalling for the town band, Stuck in Dublin. In a couple hours we’ll smoke weed In the old graveyard past the Credit Union, Get a spicebag from the Chinese, And when I go home,

You won’t be able to prise The stolen pint glass from my closed hand. All that still to come. In the pub you can hardly move for all the people, Coming out For the first time in two years. It feels finally like it did years ago And I am full to bursting With love for them all. Above the Square, The L-shape foil of a child’s balloon Escaping Can just be seen, Batted ever higher by the breeze. I do not think of its owner, I am focused only on the balloon. I turn to David, say - you could nearly write a poem about this He looks at me, says - I guess you could -

Nigel McKeon

My Kentucky Avenue

Alice Murphy got her room redecorated With a table specifically for doing her make-up Harriet kissed a pillow and pretended it was George: word spread Somebody said “Fat girls” walk slow, breathe heavy, even pee more loudly, do that funny waddle Kerrie interjects in conversation now and then With openings like ‘Do you think her thighs rub together?’ or ‘I bet she wears that scarf to cover her pot belly’ And the girls always ask ‘Do I look pregnant in this?’ Blame it on the food baby. I think it best To breathe less often, To practice walking, laughing, sitting, yawning, standing and taking a sip from my water bottle All before the mirror So I can be sure these comments won’t be made about me. Marcus is selling lucozade and hubba bubba From his sports bag “I’m going to throw this and we’ll all laugh if you can’t catch it” Adam rolled his blazer sleeves all the way up To his elbows in town on Friday, an effort to look Cool, to lead the pack. We got sandwiches and milkshakes in Dalton’s Emily got milky buttons and lime: I think that’s wrong. We told David we’d get him grass, took his 30 quid And gave him mostly moss in a bag Made vines that afternoon, and watched the ‘She Looks so Perfect’ music video

On Jenny’s widescreen TV Katie took photos of me In the dark of her back garden Clutching a bottle of soy sauce So they’d think we were at some party They’d got no invite to. We burnt Anna’s carpet, stained it with fake tan, and Our parents never knew Where we were that night Or what we did all those others Shamelessly. Concealer for a hickey (never mine) The preparatory photoshoots To convince Annette that we were studying today Slipping cereal into our blazer pockets Snacking through the school day Making pros and cons lists For the new boy And plans to rescue friendships Altered by a brutal exchange Of chewing gum. Come with me where I am now And together we will feast, forever, gladly Our round bodies glow golden on the city rooftop, Arms to the blazing sky And we will jump into waves by twilight Cigarettes and red wine gleaming, each As a string of lights carries passengers on the coast. I have loved you forever You will be full again.

Charlotte Moore

Good company for walking

And as I make my journey, please come with me My tie unravels and flows off My blazer glazes off my not so silken shoulders look broad towards the usual trodden As we curl the bend and tilt into the park I’ll point out the trees, staring like infants at ladybirds Oh it’ll be dark alright In big bug eyed moonlight And as tie and co transit forward and brush their respective teeth, Our bare skin will develop dew and grow moss I really hope the immersion isn’t on But tie and co will fix that As we bundle and bramble and pontificate Tie trembles in the lonely dark sitting room. We finger the gaze of dusk and yearn the cool twilight outward It spills onto and around us, down your naked spine bumps And we balance beam the dead-line onwards At the house, pasta or rice or whatever. I gum the bark and you sweet talk the songbirds I’ll put my arm around you, gladly As for the rest ? Will we miss it? The managerial ménages attempts to echo But the gate has swallowed us now I grin and bear you nearer And as we dip our toes in the frogpond, Tie empties and unfurls For my sins I glance at the gate And awake.

Hugh McStravick

Jinx Lennon border schizo Cosmic FFFolk singer a.k.a Free State Nova

Who is Jinx Lennon?

A singer from Dundalk Town who sings, rants, makes noise whatever it takes to pour out creative lava and keep the head clear to a worthwhile existence.

Would you not wear a suit and look dignified and calm down like other Irish singers your age?

Dignity can be dreary. To try and have an understanding with the muse is my goal. I don’t like being pegged down.

The people who are pegged down are a lot happier and make much more money am I not wrong?

Maybe you are right but the pegs hurt your fingers and you go through purgatory for a few more quid, and you lack joyfulness. Anyways shut up now and let me get on with it please.

featured: David “Jinx” Lennon opposite: Sara Jane Hopkins

I will be a big light I will be a big light I will be a light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will I will be a big light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will It doesnt have to be enormous light,king light ,klieg light Maybe big wax candle,energy you can handle Drip drip on the carpet,blast it,watch it,wipe it,get on with it Taken for granted,your fault,current slips away ,laziness never kept at bay Cant feel the bite anymore and when it’s gone,when will it return Glinda and the magic wand,won’t turn on Now stuck in a rut pull yourself up,that takes guts Even doing that might,just ignite,move past the SPITE Self hate doesn’t make a pretty sight,but you’ll be alright Snaky face is watching he needs your energy Big spiders dread ,big spiders legs Mandibles pointed straight at your head I will be a light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will I will be a big light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will It could be a tiny light Amalgamation ,a constellation A billion billion light years away situation Look through the telescope, there’s a piece of dirt Damn it to hell

What’s going on Could see it last night Oh there it is again ,alright Behind the big cloud The milky way Turin Shroud Tiny pixel on a plasma screen New technology The Peoples Republic of China Binds up together well as intricate cells Strong faith like duracelll Snaky face is watching sleepless Cobra looks for weakness A big arachnid,who is he trying to kid Pull yourself up,before he struts,get yourself great big guts I will be a light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will I will be a big light I know I’ll try I will I know I’ll try I will You can be a big light,make it right Remember when you thought they controlled what you do It was hell for you ,how did you get through ,that year or two I know I see,sometimes a big light inside you and me Feels right,then its glows for a long time You get used to it Start taking it for granted When you start taking it for granted Light starts to diminish Big glass barrier around the finish it wont let the rays shine out

Not as strong as it could be about Cant see out It’s like a new pair of glasses Bit of dirt at the end of it Bit of dirt at the side of it Now you’re getting too used to it That low grade glow Give it a wipe back comes the bright once more Brighter than it was before That’s good now you can see even more you soak up with greater speed Throw out all the things you dont need Say to yourself see what belongs to me ,I. cant see properly with all this stupidity, fool pops up,proped up by property Now its dull on the inside,got no pride left, just a bit of spite left Snaky face is comin,still comin Turn around and say snaky face Will you ever fuck off away from me You are not my master you two faced bastard You are a disaster Still theres fresh stuff coming after And a laughter

featured: David “Jinx” Lennon 30

opposite: Setlist: Hendy’s, 2019

The night the murder car of death drove into Dundalk town from the forthcoming album ‘Curl up and die and get on with it ‘ A local trader from the north Saw two dodgy blokes at large Gusty’s boys going trout fishing The crescent was half listening Dublin Monaghan attacks The Glenane Farm The Jackal Pack The IRA had struck a nerve The UVF were about to serve Whip crack away the lights went out A woman screamed and men did shout The night the murder car of death Drove into Dundalk Town Whip crack away neighbours at the door The Easter Island face of awe The ambulances up ahead But much too late to help the dead Two miles away in a country pub Three men stopped for drink and grub The landlord noticed their sharp clothes They spoke in soft mid Ulster tones Later on in Jocelyn Street There, a local busy body Saw a red cortina at the kerb A king Billy boy he knew emerged He tried to run and say hello But seconds later he was gone He thought he might be up to no good

Should he tell someone maybe he should WELL ITS TOO LATE NOW A MHIC Whip crack away the lights went out A woman screamed and men did shout The night the murder car of death Drove into Dundalk Town Whip crack away, neighbours at the door The Easter Island face of awe The ambulances up ahead But much too late to help the dead Hugh Waters was a tailor by trade Getting ready for the Christmas trade Delivery and someone to meet Killed stone dead in Crowe Street Jack Rooney was a council man Could make anything with his hands Crossed the street for a Snaky one And then was blown to Kingdom Come I happened to be in a corner shop To get a red notebook for my thoughts The ground shook and I turned around Like a nuclear bomb in the centre of town Down through pearse park I did roam The neighbours stood outside their homes Their heads turned to the northeast Their eyes said told you so here comes the beast

Whip crack away the lights went out A woman screamed and men did shout The night the murder car of death Drove into Dundalk Town Whip crack away neighbours at the door The Easter Island face of awe The ambulances up ahead But much too late to help the dead I was there,I was there I promise I was there The night, the night The murder car of death drove into Dundalk town I was there,I was there I promise I was there The night, the night The murder car of death drove into Dundalk town

featured: David “Jinx” Lennon 34

opposite: Setlist: Independence Cork, 2018

So Jinx is what you do SPOKEN word?

Spoken word is a very stupid name for a literate art form. The priest does spoken word at his sermon. The man who talks to himself at the centre of town does SPOKEN word.Alexa on your phone does SPOKEN word.I got dragged into these kind of nights at one time and it sapped my energy immediately.

So it’s comedy

No.Definitely not. Comedy is like a contract between the performers and the audience. It goes like this: Anything I say is there to be laughed at. So it’s a cop out.You could call what I do vomity because I spew out all the unfiltered thoughts that may or may not have coherence yet feel like good energy to be shared with the audience in an uplifting sense.

Quite vague is it not?

You could call it border schizo Cosmic fffolk punk poetry and anyways life can be vague too.

featured: David “Jinx” Lennon opposite: Notation: Belfast 1971

opposite: My Complice Catherine Ding

ultimology

gifts as promises of futurity in the end-time overflow of grief metabolizes in brain & suddenly you are hysterical the know-nothings are coming back or have been back a long time youtubers start making videos about the 200 year trend cycle medievalists light candles in the dark holy ghost spilling spirits thinning out my heart belongs to burn victims caught playing with fire the most human injury everything smells like matchsticks to me

Ava Chapman

She eats her fingers in Latin

Red and bloody She sits on my left Her teeth bite into the Soft skin of her hands And I taste salt on her tongue Her fingers don’t taste No flavour just flesh They enjoy being chewed on For they rapidly tailor their torn selves With stitches and safety pins Only for her to gnaw at them again Amidst third declension nouns And imperfect subjunctives I see her feasting on herself We haven’t done the verb for ‘to eat’ yet But I looked it up in the dictionary manduco, manducare, manducavi, manducatum Her fingers are manducata Things that have been eaten Things that continue to be eaten They are peeling an orange today They look strange, out of place Outside Latin, outside her mouth

Khushi

babies

it was funny, if you’re a fan of a fucked-up joke. that all of those mirrors meant all of this smoke. how i thought i’d like you to wash my hair tonight, would like you to revel and toke in soapy steam. wet hair and legs and inbetweens. your fingers slipping down spine and skin. your sole intention would be to wash me. i thought with unshaking certainty that in our big house by our little sea, you would slice tomatoes with sharp knives thickly with flakes of salt and basil leaves and i would sit on the counter top and read you all that i had written that day, marvelling at your arms and we would stay. and i’d swear to some whole god not to care: that i’d be no good at mothering, but i would bear your babies in a heartbeat, if they’d have so much as the curve of your feet. admit defeat to whatever patriarchal poison i’d gulped down. whatever stockholmsyndrome-suburbia lies if that warm-bellied imposter was going to look up at me with your blue eyes. the rest of it just wouldn’t matter. it was funny, if you’re a fan of nausea, irony, not-going-as-planned. you kept promising to be there, to hold my hand, but i wanted to go alone. couldn’t stomach the thought of you watching me go cold. some feminist i was, ready to fold at something called misoprostol and a whitecoat. jesus, don’t thursdays just have me by the throat! just wait at home, i said, there isn’t love in rooms like that. hey, look, at least, i won’t get fat. darling, don’t make jokes like that. sorry. no not sorry. you’ll find me disgusting, now. the plight of fucking womanhood. this didn’t go the way it should. no, you won’t love me, will you? something empty, some could’ve-been. but i’m just a kid, i’m just eighteen.

i know, baby, i’m here the whole way through. don’t say that, don’t say baby. great, we’re fighting. you- you, you’re too good. and i’m alright caus’ this all makes sense and its my choice. so, i’m being mad, to feel thisto feel this fucking bad. like evil. and i’m not, right? i thought you and kissing and babies. what a heavenly sight. what godly gifts. but not like, not like, not like this. it was funny, if you’re a fan of a sick twist. to meet god in the bathroom, coked-up, twirling, complimenting some girl’s two-piece fit. sweating out mascara and smirnoff, club entry band torn off her wrist. to read poetry and realise how little there is to say. to know it’s not commitment that makes anyone stay. to unearth, stuck beneath the stove top, the rot of paralysis. to think you, you, you, but you didn’t mean like this. to love like coming up for air, the only pure thing, and even that cannot exist somewhere as cheerless, dark and deadly as this. when i was a kid i loathed the thought of settling down. had this infatuation with some life of moving around. but then, came you, and i wanted to have your babies, which surprised even me. only to find myself in sweatpants in a waiting room, counting my blessings that i might get it for free.

Eloise Rodger

Waldeinsamkeit

but I was imagining a softer version of the apocalypse like gentle saltwater lapping over train tracks like skateboarding fast down an empty open freeway like mosses slowly peeking out of all the fallen concrete like the coyotes coming back to my garden but there is a mushroom of a cloud gasping and looming overhead it is indescribably huge a blanket closing the eyes of the sun

Coco Yael Goran

Untitled

I dreamt that I was picking a scab On the back of my foot, Scalded pink Baby bath Ripe from the shower. The scab thin and peel-y. My fingernail inserting itself Under Neath. But Before I can pull I wake up. I trace over the spot where the scab was, Smooth and unbroken, And I try the other foot And I wish for the scab to be there. For the feeling of dry White Edges, For blood clotted over In a landscape of shiny hills. A clean break, Unbroken.

I pull on a shirt (it belonged to her) That is thick. Its hems look like they have been chewed. The leggings stretch over my foot, bulge fitting through, Legs stretching underneath, Membrane moving, Ants under a hill, Worms in the mud Writhing And I dream of the evening when it will all come off. I dream of skin. Skin in tight knots And skin in tangles, Stretched like dough And drooping in bangles, Swathes of it, unravelling Until one day She is there. My grandma-bird, Thin under a paper blanket. Paper skin Paper hands Liquid eyes.

Oona Camille

Epilogue

Some velvet morning licks the tide The night’s been spent and this old ruin is all you’ve got Effacing, weary – wearied face And in the shadows an antique smile slowly rots You step inside to feel the heat But now the warmth of yesteryear and all her charms Has been abandoned, empty lots Too quick the sound of an empty laugh now alarms The cruelty of the summer glare Somewhere upstairs a poor soul is on the mend So you take someone in your arms Enacting on your darkness a sweet revenge “Let’s wait out the damning day” Someone spits and casts an answer by your mind: “The day is lost to night again” The day is lost and all those days you’ve left behind Closing eyes Closing eyes

Entire lives come crashing down upon the rocks And now you’re chomping at the rind Of hollowed gourds in hallowed hallways, empty lots So settle in and take the hit A beating drum, a beating heart that stops and starts A beating heart that slowly rots And shifts your body in an image of all its former parts Now in its wake you come alive Entombed in womblike conflict, a pregnant fray The heavens beckoning a farce; The stone rolls over and up you rise – the third day – Resurrected with a fix What a beautiful night Softly say What a beautiful day

Fionn O’Drabhláis

CONTRIBUTORS Catherine Ding: I study English Literature and Film Studies. I am currently practicing vanity management to protect myself from sin as well as from writing dubious poetry. Phelim Ó Laoghaire: Ethan, I wish I had taken your portrait. Next time. You probably will not even read this. Bite me. Jack Torres is a 20 year old writer from Boston, MA. He is studying Middle Eastern and European Languages and Cultures at Trinity through the Dual BA program with Columbia. He is compiling a portfolio of poetry, creative writing, and opinion essay and aspires to work in international journalism. Aoibh Manning is no longer five feet to the left, she is dropping into her body ! she dreams of foxes in swimming pools & she is feeling overwhelmed by all the figs hanging over her head. she’s a scribble, a scrawl, a claw at the wall. she hopes it all works out in the end (or sooner, if that’s an option) Manasvini Duggal is a twenty-year-old poet and writer from New Delhi, India. Currently an undergraduate at Trinity, Manasvini has been writing prose and poetry for the past two years. Her work with poetry began when she started her blog, titled “Of a Life in Prose”, from where she has worked her way towards publishing her original work, a debit collection entitled “Dear Iris”. Alongside writing, she is interested in music and plays both guitar and bass. Ava Chapman is currently out of the country & extremely excited to coedit Icarus next year with Cathal! Seirce Mhac Conghail is a final year English and Irish student. Their work has been published in New Critique, The Phare, and Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, among others. They would love a little baby bat friend. Maitiú Charleton is from Dublin. He doesn’t like using quotation marks. That could change! Jessica Sharkey is in final year art history, carries her sketchbook around and draws silly little pictures and that’s about it.

Sarah Moran is an ex-English student and ex-ex-psychology student. While her poem in here is about Allen Ginsberg, she is not a “fan”; she wrote a whole dissertation about it. Nigel McKeon (she/they) is a poet, podcaster, author, and professional hot chocolate reviewer from Ireland. She co-hosts the Hyperfixations, Archive Admirers, Nanny Ogg’s Book Club, and Les-bi-honest podcasts, and has voiced characters in Cordial Summonings, The Night Post, Seven of Hearts, and Spirit Box Radio. She has written for The Night Post, and her writing has appeared in The Attic, Iris Magazine, and The Edinburgh Student Literary Journal. She has just finished her undergrad degree in English Studies in Trinity College Dublin, and intends to fill her time with getting tattoos, travelling, and making an inordinate amount of podcasts. Charlotte Moore is an English Literature / Art History student who can’t rollerskate, has never been to Canada and sometimes, can’t even smile. Hugh McStravick is inspired by his grandfather who once said - “Words are like fields, you aren’t going to grow much by turning them over in your mind” Khushi holds a Bachelors in English literature from the University of Delhi, and is currently pursuing a Masters in Classics from Trinity College, Dublin. She reads. A lot. Eloise Rodger is thinking big, BIG things in a properly big way. Just you wait, sir!!!!! Any day now, yeah?????? Big time. Coco Yael Goran: In LA standing under a streetlamp with all the coyotes, and in Dublin constantly resisting the urge to take a Liffey swim. Oona Camille (she/her) is a person who normally does not publish poetry, but apparently writes it occasionally. Fionn O’Drabhláis wanted to make you laugh at his own expense and couldn’t even think of anything sufficiently self-deprecating to say without betraying his own charm and wit. What a shmuck, ay?

MASTHEAD editors Alex Mountfield, Paul Preciado, Kodwo Eshun, and Anna Akhmatova walk into a bar... Gabrielle Fullam: very hot sentient ai. but the kind that just produces new scripts for ‘Friends’.

featured contributors David “Jinx” Lennon: When the Spirit Store in Dundalk town opened up as a venue in 1999 it was in the middle of a singer songwriter deluge. I had no band and i was tired listening to lads singing about smoking hash or playing post grunge with mid Atlantic voices.I’d been to see Al Green and was amazed at the way the show pushed you out the door feeling good natured and righteous and i wondered could i deliver some of that while singing in my own accent about living at the borderland and also pulling in Pat Mc Cabe Public Enemy Patrick Kavanagh Captain Beefheart,Tommy Makem,cowboy songs Mark E Smith ,Flaming Lips,snooker halls and border discos, 25 years of shite jobs and a childhood immersed in the dual world of living in a land split in two by Colonialism .Taking the mantle of The Free State Nova an anti hero for the North East ,the forgotten province of Oriel , the aim was to sing songs about the strangeness in the ordinary day to day existence of living below the army masts of the Armagh Mountains and the TV transmitter at Annaverna.Sometimes lucid sometimes maddening but always striving to create a world apart this is the music and here are some songs to bring your head on a journey through the subterranean cracks of the concrete jungle and the dilapidated fences and walls along the Muirheavna Plains.

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