TSOMP is ordering fishboxes from the chipper with your Ma on a Friday.
TSOMP is two busstop Madonnas waiting for the Number 40 outside St. James’ hospital.
TSOMP is Elvis being alive and well in a back garden five doors up the road when the ice cream van comes.
TSOMP is licking the piss and eating the shit from your streets.
TSOMP is William Shatner singing Common People by Pulp and the miners’ strike.
TSOMP is John Lennon and the Marcel Duchamp up his nose.
TSOMP is Denis O’Brien’s magic flute in Vienna.
TSOMP is sniffing your chicken Kiev fingers after dinner.
TSOMP is David Bowie’s death and sticking two gangrene thumbs up your nostrils when you’re dead.
TSOMP is a communist co-op on Decies Road in the 1950s shut down by the church’s gold finger of fury.
TSOMP is the hanging testicles of Ballyfermot brought to you by a tight green pair of vintage running shorts.
TSOMP is chicken sausages on the Saturday Allstars’ shelf of bargains in Tesco’s.
TSOMP is finding the best kisser in Ballyer walking the wards of James’ hospital.
But mostly TSOMP is The Steam Of My Piss and is Camillus John’s second poembook kebab-full of modern life’s ups, downs and roundabouts with an all-singing-all-dancing cherry on top that looks a lot like Christmas.
From Ballyer Press.