WHAT DOES THIS IMAGE SAY?

Image

It says NO!


My new play NO BLACKS, NO DOGS,NO POLES has its world premiere at PENTAMETERS THEATRE, Heath St, Hampstead London NW3 6TE and runs from 13th May to 1st June. It deals with racism and bigotry in Ireland


 Synopsis

 The dysfunctional Kennedy clan are having a re-union. There’s the father, Con, a successful building contractor in London who has had to relocate back in Ireland because of tax irregularities in the UK.  Con is secretly bisexual, although not-so-secret from his wife, Marion, who has known it all along and kept quiet about it. His estranged son, Michael, turns up after five years in Australia with Cathy, his new aborigine wife.  To say his parents are surprised would be putting it mildly. His nephew, Jimmy, also turns up and it is soon apparent that his racist, bigoted views haven’t mellowed any as he has got older. We learn that he is there at Con’s invitation; his real reason being to spy on Marion, who Con suspects of having an affair. Jimmy also has his own agenda, selling crack/cocaine to the local drug users – a plan which backfires when the drugs, which he has buried in the back garden, are discovered by Michael, heightening the already tense atmosphere in the house. Add in JJ, construction manager for Con, whose attraction to Marion must be obvious to everyone except Con.

WATCH THIS SPACE FOR UPDATES

 

THE MISSING POSTMAN AND OTHER STORIES

 

to purchase or read extracts from any of my books click on my Amazon page; http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-entImage

LONDON HIGH-RISE

 

 Image

 

            LONDON HIGH-RISE

            The graffiti spreads like muck along the walkways

            In the lifts and on the stairs;

            BOLLOCKS TO THE POLL TAX

            TANYA SUCKS and CORINNE FUCKS

            The stench of urine everywhere

 

            This calcified menagerie

            Bakes hearts as hard as concrete

            Solidifies old attitudes, buries hope

            Deifies ignominy

 

            Here, echoes of hollow laughter

            Ghost through the floors

            Children play high-rise hopscotch

            And stilettos click rhythmically

            Along tuneless corridors

 

            Another circus of misfits

            Adrift in the maze

            Cocooned in captivity

            In this graceless legacy

            Of the stack-em-high days

to read extracts from any of my books click on my Amazon page; http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

 

WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW…

…is more shitty poetry. So says Charlotte Cuevas on her online blog. Or doesn’t need. (she was being sarcastic) Charlotte is a napowrimo knocker, who feels that this month of unfettered poetry offerings brings out the worst in people. Poetry-wise anyhow.

“And we especially need more shitty poetry that conforms to predetermined themes and forms- daily prompts which relieve us from the bothersome task of coming up with something on our own.

“Write a persona poem from the viewpoint of the first thing you see when you look away from the computer screen.”

“Grab a blind person and write a sestina using the first six words they point to in the newspaper.”

I’m sorry, are we poets or are we vending machines? What the hell kind of poet prides themselves on “Hey, pick any random form and subject and I’ll make a poem out of it in 20 minutes or less or your money back.”

There’s more in the same vein, but to be honest I don’t give a shit anymore!

SHITTY POEM

Perhaps we were less deceived

Than first we believed

In nineteen-sixty-three.

Legs, The Beatles, moon-talk

And JFK going down that

Long slide to eternity.

 

Later, there was Dylan

Vietnam killing

And Mini’s both

Mechanical and mercurial

While all the time

We were shooting a line

That was both entertaining

And entrepreneurial

 

This wasn’t the way we were;

A generation of graven anonymities

Their money-God waxing

While free-thinkers wane.

Well are you shot of it, pal:

Nothing, like something,

Is happening again.

 

TRAVELLING THIS HIGHWAY

Image

TRAVELLING THIS HIGHWAY

 Travelling this highway

Places more than distance between us.

As the gap widens

So the empty feeling grows

 

Lovers can’t be choosers, you said

Our meetings timed to fill your empty moments –

As if such transience could ever be enough.

 

He rules you still though love is gone

Dead as the wasp on this window sill

Your heart would race away if you would let it;

Why care a jot what others think?

 

You were never meant for running

I can see that now;

Too much you value to be arranged.

I never believed I could say good bye;

So I didn’t.

THE WRITING IS NOT ON THE WALL

Image

Not always. Sometimes it is in the most unusual places. On the Hollywood hills for example Aerial Hollywood Sign.jpg

And I like this one on paper 
 
and this one  on a fence   

 
to read extracts from any of my books click on my Amazon page; http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

THE WRITING IS ON THE WALL

Image

And sometimes it is better than the writing on the page! Here are some examples:

Think like a genius, work like giant, live like a saint.

The chamber of secrets has been opened- enemies of the heir, beware.

One day this wall will be replaced by trees. Stephanie.

Remember, no matter how cute he is, somewehere, some girl is tired of taking his shit.

Never trust a skinny cook

And my favourite – Stop me before I paint again!

 

Visit my Amazon book page http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

PRISONER

 

 Image 

PRISONER

 The ticking clock is silent

Articulating emptiness

Mainspring not busted

Just not required.

Time gulling it over the horizon

Speckled in the distance

The residue left behind

Not worth a light

 

Over some visionary hill

Virtual reality is real enough

More and more scream the worms

Turning every which way but one

More length, more depth

More leisure, more pleasure

More love, more life

Bur mostly more coin

 

Nothing prepares us for this

The hand that held the answers

Trembling now before new idols

Knowledge bootless as experience

New waves have old beginnings

But tired dogs own no snap

It’s the rut we’re stuck in, see?

Slow going forward but no going back

 

Sitting by time’s window

Waiting for the daily rebuff

To come winging by

Sifting little crumbs of comfort

From the embers

Screaming all the way……

 

 

 

LETTERS TO MOTHER AND OTHER DEAD RELATIVES

This is a collection of letters to various dead relatives including my mother, father, grand-uncle Mikey, aunt Margaret. Subjects include wills, WW1, Illigitimacy, Patrick Kavanagh, Jack Joyle, famine, sowing potatoes, old cemeteries, the magic road, Donncha Ruadh, Bobby Sands, IRA, the Easter Rising, My aunt Margaret, etc etc etc.

 

Image

visit my Amazon book page http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent