Author: gorgeousgael

PIGS AND J JUNOR

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PIGS AND J.JUNOR

This island, this septic island

Adrift in a sea of indifference

Towed along by other entities

Once fearful of its wash

Hear the battle-cry from every tower block,

Every street corner, every public bar,

Every private club

It is the cry of the wastrel, the cry of the vagabond

The thief in the night, the rapist, the pick-pocket

The whore, the low cur, the high roller, the insider,

The asset-stripper, the banker and the bounty-hunter

Ask not what I can do for my country

But what my country can do for me

 

You have fouled this planet with your culture

Profaned us all with your arrogance

You value dogs more highly than children

And leave old soldiers to freeze in empty rooms;

Single mothers flaunt their skin-tight jeans

And ‘gentlemen’ still peer down their long noses

Where the only good Irishman is a stupid one

Or a dead one

And the only good Black man an unemployed one

Or a pimp.

Wouldn’t you rather be a pig?

STEVIE SMITH – NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING

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Not Waving but Drowning

NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING

BY STEVIE SMITH

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

POEM by Philip Larkin

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This Be The Verse

BY PHILIP LARKIN

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

DYLAN THOMAS NAILS IT- AGAIN

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DO NOT GO GENTLE I TO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

BORN TO MISSS

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BORN TO MISS

You see I came to everything too late

I missed the first train

I missed the last bus

I missed the sixties swinging

The Stones and The Beatles singing

I missed On The Road and Happy Days

Woodstock, Bob Dylan and the hippy craze

I missed the signals

That women give

Carnaby Street and I Want To Live

I missed double sixteen

More times than I can remember

And I missed the Lewis effigy-burning

Every bloody November.

THE CROWD SHOUT OUT FOR MORE

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THE CROWD SHOUT OUT FOR MORE

I never thought I’d say

That Ireland is to me

Just another piece of ‘real-estate’ today;

The place where we murdered rabbits

On nights both windy and dark

Giving them that old one-two

With a rigid hand behind the neck;

The place where we captured hares

For coursing in the glen

The blood coursing wildly through our veins

As Morrisseys lurcher

Swept them up from behind – again

The place where Mass was said

And Politics pled

On Sunday mornings

Outside churches

While inside, the sermon was read;

The little man was important then

And favours done, or causes won.

Were little enough

To cause much concern to anyone

Not any more

Now that the greedy guts hold all the floor

And all you hear is rampant cheers

And raucous shouts for more

And more…

And more…

And more…

CYCLISTS

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CYCLISTS

Why do they cycle in the middle of the road,

Or hog the white line,

Go when the lights red

And sometimes stop when they are green,

And steer with their knees

While their hands are doing something obscene?

HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

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HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

Hemingway?

You know I always thought

He had a Romanian head on him

Romanian, how so?

Well, It had that bloated look to it,

And Romanian heads always

Look soggy, I think

Hemingway had it in spades..

‘Course it might be the drink, too

He could never pass a bar,could he?

Or it might be that time he landed on his head

In those two helicopter crashes he had

One after the other, the same day I think.

Split his skull open

Exposed his innards to those African parasites

Who knows what damage they did,

Rampaging around his grey matter.

He never said much about it afterwards

Though that twinkle in his eye

Often looked more like a twitch.

PUT YOUR RED DRESS ON

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PUT YOUR RED DRESS ON

She was wearing a noir velvet coat

Of a dubious nature

Passed on from its now vanished previous owner

The cold beauty of winter was dying

The girl with the coat was in the corner crying

Drawing her long cigarette to her swelling lips

In a kind of slow motion enunciation

Her demeanor was shouting out

What about emancipation!

She is a vision to be imagined

Wrestling with snow-white sheets

With sad music permanently on repeat

Wailing a song of love

About her lover not long since gone

Then she casts her coat aside

And shouts to the throng

I’m going to put my red dress on