Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Start of something more substantial...

Yeats lost romantic isle
with hands fumbling in greasy tills
for the week and
friday nights, the nights
when the lights light up
staggerers staggering
(as, I suppose they do)
to the beat of an ego taller than a monument to light

Heaney's turf, all of it,
was cut out of bogs -
the nation changed and there we were,
moved back, started over
sponsored foreign games
enjoyed foreign food and beer and wine and prices
but cursed out the foreigners themselves
- maybe so they know how we felt in London - a trial by fire?
- we send the new Irish home,
going home bitter, twisted and forgotten
and meeting home resented

A Short Poem, Consisting Only of a Foul Exhoration (Beckett-like? Beckett probably don't like!) with a Very Long Title


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Teens abandoned in the countryside

See this page.

"I'll do what I like"

Yes, OK, do what you like

In the middle of a fucking field, you little runt!

Cackle, cackle, cackle

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Thursday, February 08, 2007

Some days

Some days, it's just a little

too much.

A raging mind raves with comments

and complaints

A limping imagination curls up in a


Breaking bread with magpies and


Thieving token rings and


If I could drive my car


Away from here, I would.

But i'm stuck in traffic and can't see anything else

Except the traffic in front, beside and behind

But when I'm calmer I decide

I wouldn't want to leave you behind

I wouldn't make it too far alone

With a limping imagination, following ideas

Like a dog follows a bone.

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