TMO is proud to publish original works of fiction and poetry as part of its literary coverage. If you’d like your work to appear in TMO magazine, please check our submissions page for details.
The giant porpoise of the sky Swims over the village after dark. Moon irradiation renders it invisible But I can feel the down-draft from its tail-fin Even on the stillest night. Every darkness when it is deepest – Which means closest to us – I hear it sing distinctly; Sympathetic; I vibrate – A leaf […]
The Lion-Tamer Someone said he met his death Like a lion-tamer Who decided to tease his animals Until he could tempt them no longer. He misconstrued their appetite And left the circus divided. Someone called him a ‘Hero’, Someone else preferred, ‘The Fool’, A third party argued life was a show And commended the part […]
To Scotland on the Occasion of the Vote for Independence on September 18, 2014 If I were in Ireland three hundred years ago I would be hedge schooled in militant I would speak emigrant I would despise the English empire with the passion of a poet whose hands have been cut off in an […]
One of a series of poems by Kevin Casey, published as part of TMO’s original poetry collection.
Science, Spirituality and the Corporation come together in a short story by D.M Lynch
Our baby is crying and I wonder how Victor can sleep through. ‘My dear, the baby is awake.’ He opens his eyes, ‘Will you?’ Yes I’ll go, you sleep through, you useless shit. I suppose you don’t hear him calling for his papa. And of course he calls for him. I cannot sleep anyway, feeling […]
These “suicide-prone” epigones Gather to drink from The Marian Shrine. And shout taunts at those They’ve already insulted online . They only go mob-handed At those they have fought, And are literally better fed than taught. Trailed-up on the protein-rich diet of kings; Their mothers’ gave everything Within and beyond their means. This Spides’ agoge […]
In the snap, confetti the guests fling were the scales from the butterfly’s wings. Coventrating not cleaving the air that used to make it soar – became a simulacrum – an electroscope flapping in a jar, charged and discharged by an electrophorus of despair – the diaphragm applicator: Only it, and the picture, are still […]
Oft have I heard the chymes of midnight In adjacent flats or in the streets. These materialise, like Balla’s lamp In the morning under my feet. I awoke to a peal of beer bottles And white-cider tins Tintinabulated by OCD winds.
A young derelict with a baleen beard, In which every drink or meal he’s had adhered. Traversing headlights lifted this stone I practically hurled on the way home.
