Howth Harbour Howth, County Dublin looking toward Ireland’s Eye yesterday
The Survivor
When the last weather forecaster has died
spluttering live on air
and the TV’s just ads on a loop for things
there’s no longer anyone around to make;
I’ll appoint myself chief pathologist
for there’ll be no one else to do the job;
start slicing each of you open,
squash your lungs into a jar
intended for mayonnaise,
plop your eyeballs into one labelled
pickled onions, cut your livers out
like the butcher used to
when there were still butchers
and the liver wasn’t yours;
write down for my own benefit
my findings:
where you all went wrong.
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I’m so glad you chose to publish this “work”.
Tripe,
nothing personal, but this is terrible poetry, just terrible
Oh, I didn’t realise that you wrote poetry
I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly
Writing frightening verse
To a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg
….you claim these words as your own
But I’ve read well, and I’ve heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
Basically three sentences with
semi-colons used as full stops, and then
carriage-return pressed at
random intervals,
topped
off by centering it
on page
Obviously I cou
ld not cent
re
thi
s
Michael D’s understudy?
Nice poem, evocative of the times
but you’re gonna have to find me Mr. Higgins!
An alternative, if I may:
no unnecessary journeys, they said,
no wake, no time to waste
and here I ache for closeness,
the familiarity of an embrace –
the cities belong to the ghosts now,
echoes of a life longed for
And yet –
while I sit and nurse my fourteenth cup of tea
a single thought occurs
that perhaps in all this solitude I might find the cure for restlessness,
this aching of my heart
much much better, read it and weep Kev
She’s amazing.