I poured boiling water over their nest;
the red ants
in a disorganised frenzy beneath
the Yemeni sky,
slowed, as their Duracells
to a limp, entangled heap.
Revenge can be honeyed
on the ruins of Cartage.
It’ll make gardening less painful,
That was when I felt
the nip on my ankle,
then another, further up.
Paddy Bergin’s primrose hill
The bridge from Mars to Moons
makes ropes and ant-eating winters’ tales
intone the view from Nelson’s Pillar.
A five storied mansion drifts into place
beside the bloodless pool of Aristotle’s crimes.
It’s got an extra loo
for the devil of the morning sun –
eyeballs edged in star spangled grass snakes,
Sandeman cohabitating in her oesophagus,
pastime baseball in a three ringed circus –
should she choose to unlock the wrens of the Annunciation.
A green field slants towards confetti binoculars,
they smell the rock beneath your Foxford rug,
black adder stars and chemtrails
from the model on the catwalk.
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland. His work has been published in Acumen, Agenda, Orbis, North and in the US, Ireland and India. He has been writing Surrealist poetry for the past two years, inspired by the English surrealist poet Hilda Sheehan and by the writings of Andre Breton.