The recreation of a defensive barricade in Aleppo, Syria erected last year at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin
I’m a Dublin dog
The sky ripped with Chinese explosion
I’m a cat in Idlib
howling at the bloody moon
crisscrossed by irate fighter
I am a Raqqa rat
Glad we stayed
Unlike Aleppo foxes scuttling away
Some now thinking of return
But to what?
Fleeing over greedy land, heartless sea, bitter border guard and always the indiscriminate baton
”Fuck off home’
Angry spitting crowds bearing batons.
Cowering, why why enough enough
Others came with care and clothing
To be fair
And we were suspicious
cos they sought nothing in return.
Suspicious of kindness
But not far the noise, the noise
‘FUCK OFF HOME’ they roared
‘Where is my home? Do I have a home?’ my friend asked.
Then he went into the trees
Into the silence
Then in the quiet of night
A small window lured him
Into the still grand life of Berlin’s fabled Pergamon
Before the dust
In all its quirky courtyard beauty
before the mosaic of madness
My dusty ruined friend
Here you are now .
Here we are now.
Both you and I together at last
at this forbidden time
This city that knows the destruction of ours.
I lie down and weep.
Amongst our pristine beauty
My roars, my tears, my howls, my art, my city, my country!
Roar as alarms shriek across Berlin city
And here some will say no gratitude
Other will pray for salvation.
Pray for salvation.
What Put The Diamonds In Your Owner’s Wife’s Ears?
after Bertolt Brecht
You clean collared columnists
should first help us fix the basic roof-over-head
dilemma, before penning your next sermon.
You shower, who preach careful now
and always know your own exact bank balance,
what is this mature democracy towards which you sweat?
Without a door I can safely lock behind me
to keep your pity at bay, civilisation
doesn’t even begin.
First bring those of us who get by on Supermac’s
each our own mahogany table and a big, silver knife
with which to cut the turkey and ham into manageable slices
(with a vegetarian option for those so afflicted)
and answer us this:
What put the diamonds in your owner’s wife’s ears?
Or the Prince Albert ring in her boyfriend’s willy?
The fact you’re in there polishing phrases
and we’re out here in the undemocratic rain
which everyone – from the Primate of the Church of Ireland
to the Council for the Women of Consequence – agrees
must never be allowed land on you,
this is what keeps pinning diamonds
to your owner’s wife’s sad little lobes,
and puts the ring that winks up at her
in her boyfriend’s knob.
A Prayer For The Pope on His Arrival In Ireland
As you munch the tarmac
At Dublin Airport
Arse in the air
May you be shafted
Then and there
By a rampant pink bear
For every child your church
Tore to shreds
Reduced to quivering dread
Or left for dead…
May you be thrown back
On your plane
And flown to The Hague
To face trial for the plague
Of vicious misery
You inflicted on your flock
With evasions so vague…
Get in the dock Pops
Swear on the bible
The truth the whole truth
And nothing but the truth
So you and your paedophile
Stormtroopers at last
Face your victims
To confess to aplogise
To compensate and exorcise
The demons of your disgrace
Before being dragged to the cells
And left to rot in your Rome-made Hells
Are balloons now
Boom and burst
Are horses now
And place our bets
A lifetime’s work
On coral haven estate
House no 2
Are flat pack now
Allen keys and spare screws
Starting lovers tiffs
Are everything now
Poetry Brothel Dublin tweetz:
Thrilled to have Niamh Beirne joining our @bloomsdayfest Midnight Mass, this Friday at @thechurch_ie! Niamh is a Dublin-based poet, performer and creative producer; the creative director and co-founder of @_PETTYCASH_ and 1/6 of Spooky Beure.
Didn’t see what I’d be on the CAO
Didn’t see astronaut
Didn’t see my dreams in the courses sought
Didn’t see Kung-Fu master
Didn’t see the impending career disaster
Didn’t see techno DJ
Didn’t see the doorway to personal doomsday
Didn’t see the to and fro
Didn’t see commando
Didn’t see holding up the bar
Didn’t see rock n roll star
Didn’t see the people I’d meet
Didn’t expect to have had so much sand between my feet
Did see that experience and instinct would help me grow
Didn’t see fuck all on the CAO
Palestinians run for cover during clashes with Israeli security forces near the border between Israel and the Gaza Strip on May 14
Let Me Tell You About Them
The teenagers we shot yesterday
were shot responsibly through the eye
with plain-speaking dum-dum bullets,
manufactured in Fife, or taken down
with SR 25 sniper rifles flown
heroically in from Orange County.
Many of these so-called protestors
specifically arranged to be shot in the back,
just to make us look bad.
The gas canisters our people threw
were entirely rational, and legal,
like the Boer firestorm the kaffirs
brought down on themselves at Sharpeville,
or the best-of-British ambush
that rubbish walked into at Derry.
The one rogue canister which lost
its mind and finished up in a tent
beside an eight month old baby,
who, sadly, also expired, is currently under investigation
and expects to be cleared of all wrong doing,
unlike the baby who we’ve already found guilty.
There is no such thing as Palestinians.
Just some Arabs who used to live here
and think they still do.
The keys they wave in the air
no longer open any doors.
They are a rumour you foolishly believed,
now we’ve moved our eternal capital
to what used to be
their front room.
Yesterday: Dan Boyle: When Calling Out Murder is Anti Semitic
The Captive Butt
after Czeslaw Milosz
When an approved committee of three PhDs in
Creative Writing, English and Political Science
have spent the required laboratory weeks
ensconced with your every thought, word, deed –
and found nothing of consequence –
your buttocks will be authorised
for a Literature Foundation supported
tour of the bigger bits of the United States.
Sometimes both cheeks together,
on discussion panels:
Can Poets Be Bought?
And who’d want one anyway?
co-Chaired by the cadavers
of five Professors of Comparative Literature
at Johns Hopkins or Stanford.
Other times each going their separate way –
gluteus maximus number one
its latest free verse tribute to itself
to rapt dozens
up and down the eastern seaboard –
part town crier, part infant in need of winding –
while its equal and opposite,
if slightly more pimpled, twin
talks its way in and out of the Celtic
Studies Departments of every University
from Vancouver to Caltech
on the topic How contemporary Irish
literature is putting the I back into Irish,
to the orgasmic applause of students
named Erin and Megan
forced to attend for credit.
Minister Jim Daly has suggested social media users hand over passport or public service card details to sign up to Facebook
Internet Safety For Adults
When Her Majesty squiggles my law into effect,
it will be compulsory that every computer come
with a paedophile pre-installed.
Section four of the proposed legislation
will make it mandatory that said individual
only be activated when your child types
in his or her date of birth and a verifiable
I.D. card number which I, as Minister
for Children, will provide for each of them
free of charge. From this day forth your sons and daughters
will no longer have to haunt
local playgrounds in the hope of being accosted
by men enthusiastic to open
the all-encompassing grey coats
their type travel the land in.
Worry not, the frothing men (and occasional women)
the tech giants will, from now on, be compelled
to put inside every computer in the country
will be tested to ensure they have no interest in adults.
Obese chain-smoking blokes from near Stoke
and the sort of women whose implausibly
distended chests one notices
at post-night club bus-stops in Bishop’s Stortford
will be in no danger whatsoever.
The people to whom we plan to introduce your children
have no appetite for mutton, or dry aged sirloin;
only eat choice cut spring lamb
done exquisitely rare.