Tuesday, 29 June 2010

An Irish Beat Poet's Dilema

About to put pen to paper
it hits me, and I wonder
how many poets have wrote
about going to some party
with a guy called Dean Moriarty?

My recent visit to Yeats' grave
when Benbulbin hid
in low cloud
I found confusion in the question
of why someone so profound might want
to be buried with a gift shop so close by?

I, no horseman, still passed by.

Saturday, 5 June 2010

Don't Be Too Nice

Let's not ignore the kicks
that swing wildly past us
they might strike yet
on their way back.

Let's not use bricks
to defend ourselves from the fuss
our only friends our pets
let's use them to attack.

Monday, 1 February 2010

I Don't Like You Any More!

Can you not feel my pain!
Your words sting
I am falling
soaked with tears
like being chased by bees in the rain
each of us looking for shelter
but we harm each other
because of nature
we fall to drown
me and the bees
they stung my heart
I broke their knees.
because I mistook them for you.

Sunday, 6 December 2009

The Ballad of Robson Green

I am watching the tv
Robson Green is a cop.
There is a man pointing a gun at Robson’s head
But Robson isn’t scared
He is calling the man a coward.
I am fearing for Robson’s life
The man might shoot him in the face.
But I am not so scared
I read the other day
That Robson has signed up for a new series
Unless they plan to do something shit
like make him come back as a ghost
Robson Green will live.
But then the window smashes
as a cop fires a bullet through it
And the man’s head explodes
And his brains splatter all over Robson’s face.
What an ending
What a great fucking show.

Saturday, 5 December 2009

When I Am In Da Club

With every grimace of pain
And reddening of skin, as blood.
Flows in to localised areas of
My arms and my chest and my legs.
I hold in my head, a dream of days
When I will decend from the ceiling
Into your line of vision
Like a pseudo 50 Cent
And though I know what you will see.
I wonder what you will look like
And indeed under what circumstances
Such a situation could come to be.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

Selective Memory

When you knock
the righteous chip on your shoulder
and it sends you flying
it is only me who notices
your stumble, or
maybe everyone else
just can't believe it happened.
So they delete as is appropriate
to their choice of perception
of the events in question.

Sunday, 13 September 2009

Why I Deleted My Facebook

I won't do a quiz on which member of The Saturdays I'm more like
Not will I plant fake crops and rear pretend pigs on farmville
I won't make friends with that tramp that won't speak to me at school
just so some guy she's after can see that lots of people think she's cool.

Nor will be "become a fan" of some band of skinny jeaned
roly smoking, scruff bags who mince round my school
pulling sickies to go to sick bay and slyly wank
while waiting for the final bell.

I don't want people who've never spoke to me
to know what my favourite books or films are
and I won't have anyone posting photos of me
falling drunkenly out of some shit bar.

That I only went to because it was that
or stay at home and go on Facebook like a twat.