Author Archives: Kevin Higgins

Minister for Arts, Heritage and the Gaeltacht Heather Humphries

On The Appointment of Director of Failed Bank
To Executive Board of Literature Ireland

for Jonathan Sugarman

My Dear Writers & Readers,

Adhering to recent Arts Council guidelines,
we are adjusting
our corporate governance structures
to include more criminal psychopaths
and people who just don’t know what they’re doing
per capita than are allowed exist
wherever the average eejit gathers
to do his or her thing.

To this end, and furthermore, to help me,
I mean ‘us’, avail of the expertise
of those with experience running the real economy,
I am appointing to my board a man
with a wide-brimmed felt hat
who has supplied political and business
conferences down and up the country
with all levels of women.

To assist in the enforcement area
we are anointing a bloke who for our purposes
will go by the name “Anto”;
who may have unexplained income
about which the Criminal Assets Bureau
would love to have a chat
but that is none of my business or,
if you know what’s good for you, yours.

Finally, from next month
the skeleton of a different one
of David Loyd George’s mistresses
will sit in on each of our meetings
to advise on social agility.

Yours transparently,

Chief Administrator,
Literature Ireland

Kevin Higgins

Rollingnews

Meanwhile…

In fairness.

Minister for Finance Paschal Donohoe

from Tax
after Pascal Donohoe

In the income tax arena
I am introducing a scheme:

whereby a fifty year old man
living in, for example,
Galway, will still be able to claim
for his increasingly rickety right knee
here in Ireland, but allowed register,
for tax purposes,
his far more profitable left leg in Jersey.

He’ll be able to claim relief here on his wonky eye
but will only have to pay tax on the good one
at whatever the rate is in Luxembourg.

His three sets of dentures, all twenty six
fillings and those two root canals
will continue to be deductible here,
though he’ll now pay tax
on what’s left of his actual
teeth in Bermuda.

The good fifty percent of his lungs
he’ll be allowed set up
as an independent company
in the British Virgin Islands,
while the useless half will legally
continue to be Irish.

His nausea will remain ours,
though his enormous appetite
will now officially live on the more
glutton-friendly Isle of Man.

His beleaguered liver will continue
to be officially resident here,
while his still superefficient
bowels will spend enough time in Switzerland
to pay (hardly any) tax there.

The scar above his left buttock,
acquired when he toppled through a glass door
backwards, circa nineteen seventy three,
will continue to be deductible here,
while the balance of his bum –
in surprisingly good condition for a man his age,
though he says so himself – declares
its vast income at an office
in Wilmington, Delaware.

Elsewhere, I am extending the relief on brown leather
trousers and industrial strength lawnmowers
for fat couples with Anglo-Norman sounding names
in the better bits of Kildare for another five years.

There is agreement across the political consensus
it’s essential such people are given sufficient incentives
to keep doing whatever it is they supposedly do.

Kevin Higgins

Fight!

Rollingnews

Alan Kelly: not the subject of this verse

Any Resemblance to a Minister for the Environment is entirely coincidental.

The clasp of his handshake once reassured
prospective mothers-in-law
he’d not disappoint their daughters.
And though his infrastructure’s
in desperate need of an upgrade,
he’s confident he can get his
waterworks fit for purpose,
ladies and gentlemen, here tonight,
and those at home
watching on TV, sometime
within the next twenty
five years. And if doing so

involves flogging
every last rain drop,
from Bellmullet to Garryduff,
at a savage discount, to the guy
who despite his wallet’s ongoing
morbid obesity, has hair
that looks like it’s been stuck
to the skull with Evo-Stik,
then Kelly’s the kind of pragmatist
who’ll make shit like that happen,
whether anyone asked
it to or not.

His tongue rough
as the carpet in a room
where Stevie Coughlan
once talked against the Jews.
For the past six months,
every erection he’s had
has been a member
of the Heavy Gang
about to throw a Provo
onto the railings
from a Garda Station
second storey window.

According to recent polls,
in certain areas of Tipperary,
he’s only slightly less popular
than Richard the Third. At least
half a percent less hated
than this time last week.
Of unequivocal victory,
he has no alternative
but to be certain.

Kevin Higgins

Previously: Kevin Higgins on Broadsheet

Rollingnews

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