Tag Archives: Poetry

Belong

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.

Tony Groves

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

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

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
Probably.
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.

Aidan Comerford

FIGHT!

Rollingnews

Minister for Finance Michael Noonan

A poem to mark the imminent retirement from politics of Michael Noonan, who has spent his life in the upper echelons of Fine Gael.

Ode To Smugness

His head hairs are the thirty million maggots feeding on the carcass of creativity,

His eyes are x-ray beams burning holes through punctured public services,

His ears are oyster shells littered with the pearls of Christine Lagarde,

On the soft sand away from those drowning in the sea,

His bald head is the vulture at the “Everything Must Go” jumble sale,

His nose is an exhaust pouring black smoke on the children’s dreams,

His face is an Alsation keeping people from the truth,

His mouth is a swampy cesspit where poison splutters,

His tongue is a serpent that spits venom on the just and the poor,

His ass is a giant beach ball that Jean-Claude Juncker likes to boot around,

His heart is the army tank that drove on Bridget and her poisoned blood,

His arms are Graf von Faber-Castells writing off the debts of Denis at a stroke,

His legs are bowling pins as Cerebrus strikes it lucky again,

And his feet are roadside sweepers sucking up the crumbs,

The shivering homeless barely looking on

Ian Murlocks

Fight!

Rollingnews

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

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.

Martin McMahon

Martin blogs at Ramshorne Republic.

Pic: Louise McSharry

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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