Tag Archives: Kevin Higgins

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

Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau and his wife Sophie Gregoire Trudeau are greeted by Taoiseach Leo Varadkar TD as they arrive at Dublin Castle for the Official Dinner last night.

O Trudeau!

Cometh the rubbish haircuts firing tweets and ICBMs;
the people with bad teeth daring belch their opinions in public.
Cometh also the Warren Beatty of the North,
sans the wrinkles and heavy politics, bearing
to the sisterhood of the stuffed vine leaf
and gourmet sausage
ribbon-wrapped boxes labelled ‘hope’,
‘moderation’, and ‘free trade’;
your tongue’s delicious wiggling
persuading even Lycra clad
husbands to put bikes and running shoes aside
a moment and join the ravenous pack of dangerous
sensibilists in drizzling a tribute
of garlic butter all over
your French speaking torso.
Your hair, a field of wheat that reminds
soon-to-be-ex Prime Ministers
of better times.
Your words, as gorgeously proportional
as the gossip from the ladies’ golf-club,
float off towards the sun.

Kevin Higgins

Yesterday: Trudeau, Madly Deeply

Stop CETA Alliance (Facebook)

Rollingnews

Former Tanaiste Joan Burton during the Jobstown protest


Irish Liberal Foresees Own Enduring Relevance

My words are smoother than the essential oils
the Taoiseach last week
had his parliamentary assistant rub
into his badly traumatised buttocks.
My psychotherapist insists
half the people who’ve taken
shotguns to their own heads,
during this recession, would’ve reconsidered,
if only they’d heard me talk for an hour
each week about the dangers of Sinn Féin,
or how I live in the hope of a woman Pope.

I’m all for the good people of middle Ireland
making their point in a dignified manner
with china cups of nothing stronger than tea in their hands.
But when thugs from the far parts start burning vans
and generally acting as if they owned the place;
and gurriers from the depths begin picking up bricks
and tossing words so terrible,
they’re not even in the dictionary,
at the Minister for Poverty’s hair-style.
(How would you like your wife,
sister, great grandmother,
kidnapped in her car
for two and a half hours?)

The world will not be changed by fools
banging on the bonnet of a BMW.
But by the likes of me talking
against social exclusion in TV studios.
And fundraising concerts organised
by former pop-stars.
And the well-meaning priest
with whom I regularly have dinner;
between the two us we’ve enough
concern for the poor to construct a second
Fergal Keane of the BBC,
as a back-up in case
the existing one breaks.

Trust in us. Pay no heed
to the sweary-mouthed crowd,
who if they’re not put back where they belong
will soon be eating pot noodle from scooped out skulls
confiscated from their betters
in defiance of international law.
By the likes of them,
the world must not be changed.

Kevin Higgins

Yesterday: Meanwhile, At Court 13

Poet and satirist Kevin Higgins

A response to both Frankie Gaffney’s feelings about identity politics and the ‘disappointed’  reaction from ‘women activists’ about those feelings….

Death Chant of The Handmaidens: For Choir of 350 Identical Voices

We the underwritten do with great solemnity promise
on our watch Union Carbide, Johnson & Johnson,
Lockheed Martin, and the late Herrs Bosch and Braun
will all have penis and balls cleanly dismantled,
made safe, and exported to fortify the wall
keeping terrorists from Judea and Samaria out;

each have a working vagina installed
under a Chanterelle beige
plutonium-powered pants suit fit
to play rhapsodies in
for the safe delivery of the shells
Golda guided onto the outskirts
of Damascus, for Indira’s ‘Smiling Buddha’
one thousand four hundred kilogram bomb,
for Imelda’s closet of shoes too fabulous
for the likes of you, on a grand piano
your grandmother swiped
from departed refugees,

seconds after one’s typed
in the codes to end man,
plant, and womankind;

bequeathed the planet to the gender neutral,
and hence far more successful, bacilli
Deinococcus Radiodurans who unlike us
will waste not one moment working out
on their calculators
which Facebook comments
it would be a smart career move
to like.

Kevin Higgins

FIGHT!

Identity politics is utterly ineffective at anything other than dividing people ( Frankie Gaffney, Irish Times)

Cop On Comrades (FeministIre)

Meanwhile…

Ah here.

sweartrek

Pic via Liberties Press

image

Reading From Book of Dark Blue
after Leo Varadkar, WB Yeats, and Enda Kenny

We are for the Ireland that rolls
laughing out of its bed every morning, those
whose national anthem is the alarm
clock exploding on the bedside locker and it still dark;

who, even August bank holidays, are
in the shed before five a.m.
fashioning origami former Garda
commissioners, or writing violin concertos in praise
of the Little Sisters of the Bon Viveur,
Blessed K.T. Whittaker and anyone else
who got up ridiculously early
to make this country what it
allegedly isn’t.

We represent those who know should they fall
up a ladder, or for some other reason –
be it insanity or baldness –
be unable to properly function,
we in government will do nothing
except, if they’re lucky, repeatedly
knee them in the nasty bits.

We whose ancestors have eaten
the still throbbing heart of General O’Duffy
(or at least what we thought was his heart)
now see leaflets tumbling through respectable letter boxes
in which cretin and comedian crow their gutless song,
their arguments a bladder bloated with animal blood.

We say, down the disposal pipe
with all these and their cries
of avarice and failure,
those who engage in wilful wastage of water
by sitting there all day – the jets
fizzing up their crevices –
in Jacuzzis given them
by the tax payer.

Drown them in the tank
and bill them for their own extinction,
for they are weasels who’d drink
of your chickens until they’re dry.

We are for people who look both ways twice
when crossing the road
and remember where they left their keys.

Kevin Higgins

Kevin Higgins

Pic: General Eoin O’Higgins (Hulton/Getty)

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St Patrick’s Church, Glenamaddy, County Galway where Lenten ashes are available to motorists as a drive thru service tonight

Nouveau Catechism
after T.S. Eliot

Because we no longer hope.
Because it’s been so long since our pews
caressed your tender rears
the one holy catholic and apostolic
church is forced to offer you options:

Drive-thru ashes in Glenamaddy,

Dial-a-Confession with visually unacceptable
seminarians scattered all over Lough Derg
ready to take your call,

Speed Baptisms in hot tubs full of sparkling Ballygowan
on the roof of a Travelodge near Cashel,

Gluten free pizzas with Communion wafers
hidden in them
in a Supermacs on the outskirts of Castleblayney,

A free Holy Orders with every second
curried chips
from an Archbishop operating from the back of a van
in the greater Wicklow Town area,

A complimentary Last Rites
each time you apply for a mortgage. Usual
terms and conditions apply,
though only to you.

Two-for-the-price-of-one
drive-by exorcisms
whenever you buy petrol
in certain parts of Wexford.

Kevin Higgins

Kevin Higgins Poet

‘Drive-thru’ Ash Wednesday at Galway church (RTÉ)

Pic: RTÉ

27/09/2016. Cabinet Meetings. Pictured Minister for Health Simon Harris TD arriving at Government Buildings for the Cabinet of the First day of the Dail term after the Summer break. Photo: Sam Boal/Rollingnews.ie

Minister for Health Simon Harris

Slither

The day you slithered from the womb
the Doctor held you aloft, confirmed what we’d feared:
Madam, it’s a potential Minister for Health.” And newborn you
screamed what we later understood to mean:
bring me your perforated eardrums, your infected
urinary tracts, and I will set up a committee to look in them.”
But this most recent birth wasn’t the beginning.
Since shortly before time officially began,
you’ve dragged yourself across the top soil.

You were present and correct to brush the dandruff
off the Lord Mayor’s hat each time he visited
the municipal Home for Unfortunate Women
whose babies had to be flogged
to couples named Barbara and Algernon,
so as to be prudent with the Parish’s pennies.

You were on hand to personally present
the late archbishop with his fifth chocolate biscuit,
last time he visited the much maligned
School for The Blind, which used to be
where the town abattoir now stands.

And it was written
in lines later deleted from the Book of Judges
that it would be you who’d flood
our hospitals with avant-garde urologists
who instead of the traditional
(and far more costly) balloon catheter,
and ultrasonic stone disintegration apparatus,
prefer more radical treatments involving
a fishing rod and an electric hair straightener.

Your upcoming marriage the usual
confidence and supply arrangement
you’ve had every other century.
Your fingers are starving worms
patiently awaiting their moment.

Kevin Higgins

Rollingnews

Previously: Kevin Higgins on Broadsheet

Kevin Higgins