Author Archives: Kevin Higgins

Kevin Higgins

Saint is a new poem by Kevin Higgins dedicated to the “black babies wing of the Irish left, those who, to paraphrase GK Chesterton, are so busy loving humanity they can never find the time, or the inclination, to show solidarity with their next door neighbours.”

Saint

Because the progressive faction of the Magdalene Sisters
were no longer taking applications,
you instead tour the better fed Gender Studies Departments
of the Eastern Seaboard, preaching
your gospel of the little brown victim.

With the shrunken head of a Native American, ripped
from its original owner at the Battle of The Rickety
Left Elbow; the eyeballs of indigenous Bolivians
which have seen versions of Strictly
Come Dancing we can only imagine;

or, more prosaic days, with the rudely
annexed canine teeth of Palestinians,
which you carry about the place in a glass jar
you had specially made by a mate in Kinvara
who’s also a part time Shaman, you tickle
the consciences of those who think
life’s all olives and Pyrenees sheep brie,
and in return they titillate you
with all the fine cheeses.

For you are toast of the third world
liberation wing of Galway Lawn Tennis Club.

Kevin Higgins

Previously: Kevin Higgins on Broadsheet

To A Troll Who Loves Me

More than the hard luck stories
you hold dearer than the mildewed pillow
you’ve clutched at every night since your teddy bear
escaped on a train bound for Luton or Mallow;

more than your favourite team
hitting first the post, then the bar
in the F.A. Cup final which defined
your shit childhood, you love me more even

than the no one who pays attention to your
poems; more than the land your father
didn’t leave you in his will; more

than the mediocre grades you got despite
having been sufficiently flexible
to sleep with your teacher;

more than all the little people
who, despite your fat
advantages, turned out far better
than you, more than all of these
rolled into one, you want me.

So tonight
you’re a giant sexless toddler throwing
dead animals out of its play pen
in the hope someone
will throw one back;

your mind a no bedroom basement flat
(with kitchenette) which you fill with manic ferrets
and badgers with psychiatric issues
to make the place smell better.

Each time you message me
I kill you by never
having heard of you,
or anyone who’s ever
heard of you

Kevin Higgins

Previously: Kevin Higgins on broadsheet