Just like the air max on the teenagers feet,
And like the broken glass on the city street,
And like the backpack on the empty bus seat, belong
Just like the joyful air in the kids football,
And like the communion picture on the living room wall,
And like the contact lens on the bloodshot eyeball, belong
Everything should belong somewhere,
Just like commuter stuck in traffic, and the kid in full time childcare,
Everyone MUST belong somewhere,
So why are we okay leaving them there?
Just like the floral print on the tablecloth,
And like the cappuccino with the extra froth,
And like the boiled ribs in your nanny’s broth, belong
Just like the dark thoughts in my troubled head,
And like the nightshift worker in her daytime bed,
And like quoted tweet that just says thread, belong
Just like the shit stir words on the Op-Ed page,
And like the evicted tenant filled with rage,
And like an empty promise on a political stage, belong
Everything wants to belong somewhere,
Just like the kid stuck in a hotel, and the patient stuck on a chair,
Everyone must belong SOMEWHERE,
So why are we okay leaving them there?
I’m not okay just letting them rot there.
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.
Leaving cert pupils from Trinity comprehensive school, Ballymun, Dublin 9 last week
The Leaving Cert
Your Leaving Cert results will not be etched on your grave.
So, if you end up with more Es than a nineties rave,
Don’t worry, it will be okay
Have you ever heard a eulogy that begins,
“That A he got in Geography was the making of him?”
The Leaving Cert is not nothing,
but it also isn’t everything.
And right now, if you don’t feel like a winner,
Remember, one day this too in time will pass,
like Donald Trump and fidget spinners.
Your success in life might hinge
on things you were not taught
Like dealing with your feelings
and sitting down to talk
(Because problems are like dogs
they will rip the shit out of your insides
if you don’t let them out for a walk.)
Build a life with someone
who will one day kiss your old, saggy arse,
and grade your farts
like an Olympic gymnastics judge
Like, “good one, that was a 4.6, my love.”
Do not accept anything less.
Bad love is a lot worse the than being by yourself.
DO NOT TEXT YOUR EX!
And only have sex with people
who make your crotch go, “Rawr”
And later in life, who know CPR.
Being good at school in Ireland
means you were good at learning by rote,
But being good at life is about
your family, your friends and your vote.
And you don’t need a degree to know
that just because your TD wears a nice suit
doesn’t mean he isn’t a total scrote.
If you care about people,
don’t vote for some eejit
just cos he fixed a hole in your road.
Your age, your weight, your salary,
the cost of your home
How many likes and shares you receive
on your silly Facebook poem
We let these numbers define us
And it feels like they matter a lot
So, it might seem like the end of the world right now,
But I promise you,
You are worth more than the points that you got.
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
Choose early rising,
Choose welfare despising,
Choose busting your hump,
For a decreasing lump,
Choose rent over food,
Choose ‘not in the mood’,
Choose scared to get sick,
‘Cause the boss is a prick,
Choose ‘it’s the position redundant’,
When they lay off your soul,
Early risers in Clerys,
What a kick in the hole,
Choose loyalty to master,
He’ll fire you faster,
Choose loans for students,
So fiscally prudent,
To keep them in hoc,
Servants to bankers,
Slaves to the clock,
Choose fleeing this kip,
On a one way trip,
Like millions before you,
This country abhors you,
Choose lying in piss,
On trolley or list,
Your gaff they will steal,
And call it Fair Deal,
Choose knowing but lying,
Early mornings don’t matter,
Your toil kills you quicker,
To make the 1% fatter.