On the tip of her tongue
 
She’s . . .
 
Don’t think of melting
 
Pools along the way
A river
 
Think swimmers
 
Shipbuilding
 
On the long finger
 
She’s . . .
 
Don’t say it
 
Stop making sense
 
She’s . . .
 
Towing an iceberg to Belfast
 
By a horse and cart
 
In wheelbarrows
 
A berg
A mountain
A mountain of ice
 
Read:
 
All poetry is performance
All poetry is L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
 
Not the iceberg
An iceberg
 
Blue and . . .
 
By dreams
With dreams
In dreams
Amen
 
She’s . . .
 
Towing an iceberg to Belfast
 
And gladly
 
To return
 
Return the scene of the crime
To its . . .
 
She’s . . .
 
Towing an iceberg to Belfast
 
On the back
Of an old Morris Minor
 
An exploded artefact of sorts
From the Falls
 
We’ll all be there
When she’s coming ’round the mountain
Coming round
The mountain of ice
The ice berg
We’ll all be there
 
Takes time
And money
Poets with money
Pleased to meet you
 
The latest craze
It’s the thing to do
It’s what we wanted
But never knew
 
It’s like how come
We never thought
Of this before
It’s real and imaginary
 
It’s nothing like you
Thought it would be
It’s better than sliced fucking pan
Or meals on wheels for that matter
 
It’s not a trick
It’s no one starving themselves
For entertainment
David Blaine meet Bobby Sands
 
Good night
It’s God honest
Let’s have it now
Straight and simple
 
And what of the ship
What ship
Ghost ship
Don’t say its name
 
Swallowed by a bottle
Why not
Why not
A blue bottle
Buzz
And floating the waves
 
With a message
For everyone
 
Arrival time
Forever and some
 
Museum of ice
Of found bodies
Returned to their resting place
 
Thirty years?
Agreed
 
Here she comes
Thank the . . .
 
With the arrival of the iceberg
It is agreed
All poems are to be decommissioned
 
At last
The city
Exhales an icy breath