Monday, November 17, 2014



An old man was viciously assaulted and mauled and stuff over a period of several hours, possibly weeks, or days or whatever is the longest and most shocking ,by a rabid anarchist fox. George Niceman (86) is recovering at home with a cup of tea after his ordeal. His condition is reported to be 'stable' and his wounds 'not life threatening' despite the vicious nature of the attack. George who was nearly licked to death by the rampant vulpine sounded 'visibly upset' and eyewitnesses could hear his false teeth rattling during the hostage like situation even though they were miles away at the time. 'At one point' said Toby McNobody, 'I thought the fox was going to rip the man's head off and widdle in it.' It was clearly trying to turn the old fucker over on his roof, I mean head.'
Fortunately for George (93) A nice man was in the vicinity of the area and saved George by whirling a rubber chicken and exposing his backside to distract the beast. The lovely Enda Kenny (Taoiseach) said the Fox's behaviour was indicative of something really awful and terrible and we should not tolerate awful terrible behaviour from anyone, specially things in fur coats.
This incredible footage was captured by a passing lion tamer who is used to terrifying animals.

(Warning, film is of a graphic nature and may not be suitable for anyone who isn't suitable.)
What does that even mean? No, I won't think this video is incredible, no, I don't care about the cat and the elephant that are inseparable, even when they are having driving lessons. No, this petition won't change the world, nor will the next link change the way I think/eat/live/die. I've seen it all before and what I haven't seen won't be any different to what I've already seen. There is no magic, no lightning bolt, no answer, no quick fix, no life changing moment unless you survive a heart attack or are pulled from the wreckage
I'm sick of it all, I'm tired of everything, but I still want to live, how fucking bad must death be? For these are all detours distractions to fill the mind until we die and then it is too late to do anything like think for yourself.And even thinking for yourself is probably a worse waste of time. We had time and we wasted it and if we didn't then we should have,and even not wasting it is a waste of time.Life, even when it is, is not worth a butterfly.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

'Our Lords and Knights, and Gentry too, doe mean old fashions to forgoe:
They set a porter at the gate, that none must enter in thereat.
They count it a sin, when poor people come in.
Hospitality it selfe is drown'd.
Yet let's be content, and the times lament, you see the world turn'd upside down.'

I read the news today, Oh Boy!
The first are complaining of being last,
the ins are wailing 'out!'
The dead are alive
and the living dead,
and the world turn'd upside down.
The man with three houses
complains about the man with four
as if he hadn't two sticks to rub together.
If Concorde were alive,(still self-adored)
he'd be a bored, abhorred, aboard.
Pass the champagne,comrade.
So long one foot in the grave,
so long forging the nails of the coffin,
it now MUST be said,
it is time to call it,' tis time to pronounce,
poetry is , dead, dead , dead.

Thursday, November 6, 2014


I look up the high rise see nothing but blue skies, two in the morning, the tin man running, James Joyce on the desk, his palatable Dubliners eaten by Ulysses, some Shakespearean malady cross infected by Brian Rix and Marty Mulligan.
Take to the bed then? Take vitamin C , take omega oil to be alpha male, feed yourself to the lions, the paeans of retrospective inordinate taste and standards, the censorship bored, the gang of four or five or six, and the cronies stirring the stirabout.
What can we do but nothing. Or something. Live before die. Take a trip around the English countryside, ride a shopping trolley up the Falls Road, paint banners of discontent over railway bridges to be ignored by the commuter belt commuters. We can always wish for more, we can always hope for more , but can we make it happen? This could be the last dance, this could be the answer, let's hope for the right question. A safety net, a Lamborghini Aventador, Cristal, Crystal Meth, Benzedrine, sodium lit , halogen bright, xenons blaze down the dark highway, snatch third, peddle down, bright lights are missing the two lane black top, the high regard, the selfish resemblance of rising tides the few, the many, being good enough, the last, the forgotten.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

I'm on the wind-down. And poetry has to be truth.It rarely is. Life is the distraction that we deceive ourselves with and death is the ultimate truth.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Phaedrus, Brother.

Well I can't think, is the noise an echo or a reminder?
when the only way is forward?
You were with me brother,
though I held the knife,
you were with me brother,
the best friend of my life,
you saw them on their knees,
you heard their puking beggng pleas,
standards and heads were held high.
You and me against the world, kid.
Took the jibes with me
felt the blows, held the spite,
held them tight,
grist to the gin mill
the bitter pill,
swallowed, swift.
Life is a subtlety, like a sledgehammer.
What doesn't kill you,
makes you.
And me.
I loved you brother,
we were united,
we were never alone,
you were never heavy,
you could never die,
you could not live,
because you were never born at all.

Dear Diary,
Things were achieved little was lost, much was maintained, and oh, and oh dear, and Jaysis, I wrote a poem. Besides, or maybe because, it's the three R's that I could never master,

Rue, Regret, Remorse.

Why go back?
It was that kind of a day, the usual kind. The best of times the worst of times. Sure we got petrol, we ate baked potatoes, there was sufficient for drunkenness , darkness ,light, halogen, almost lightening the weigh. Things done, so many things to do. A search for truth, a will to embrace it, reflect it. A desire to do good, be good. I met a good person and I met . We all meet. We all lie to some degree, for gain, or for kindness. But we've got to stop meeting like this. Words flow from my fingers (that's a search for truth, a search for self), a gloriously tragic waste of time? No. Time can be misspent, but it can never be wasted, time is its own reward, its own downfall. 

Monday, January 6, 2014

Dear Diary,
Today was a really shite day, a day as bad as only a Sunday could be. Morrissey was right. And it rained.
I got a really bad dose of the yips around Teatime, the shakes were so bad they measured 8 on the Richter scale and a local earthquake alert was issued.
Thank god for the back of the cupboard, the salvation of many a dipso. Down on my hands and knees ,stretching in past the Daz and the weighing scales I salvaged a quarter bottle of gin, some flat tonic, and a can of Carlsberg (probably the worst lager in the world) that had been left by a relative at Christmas.
Stormy weather abounds, people have been lost at sea, cliffs have fallen, streets are flooded and one of my best socks, the Italian merino wool one from TK Maxx, blew off the clothes line. Is there no god?
I did also find my missing paper weight and a reasonably edible mince pie, so maybe 2014 won't be so bad after all?
Love Peadar.

Friday, October 4, 2013

A blank page, like a sheet of snow, perfect, it covers everything, all the dirt and debris beneath and you've just got to get the size 9 wellos onto it, into it, steal a Subaru Impreza and donut the world back into reality, fragility, ugly isolation, vituperative vicissitudinous machinations preparations delegations and procrastinations,well? Maybe. Later on.
Such temptations, such freedoms to speak, what holds back, tugs the coattails, don't push this to the abyss, just look in, from the edge,don't do, see what looks back from the black. Take words out, let lies, lie, truth dares,multitude of sins in us, pulchritudinous , paltry chewed in us, fortune fooled in us, life wasted by us, weighted bias, nighttime google vision, starlit monotheism , sotto crescendo, fresco, duodenum, step ladder. Words. People saying words doing deeds picking up stones throwing voices shoutly louding, deadpan eyes, windows, curtains replaced by blinds. How was this path trod, how many bootmarks in the white, this snowy landscape, this beautiful escape, why, how is it, how do they, dare they, how say they, who says they can say, where this is where where is this is this where is this where are we, going? Do we leave any trace in the snow after the snow has gone? And does it matter. Anti matter.The grave it e of the sit you a shun.Transcend mental medication. Letters pray.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Getting Back To My Roots!

I miss Totalfeckineejit, you know where you are with an Eejit. I think I miss blogging too.Comparing it to FB is like comparing the first world war to a Friday Night punch-up in the pub car park. No, I'm not really sure what that means either, but I'm sure it means...something. A hate,  a love, a mood, a feeling, that is always preferable to, more beneficial than, ...nothing.
Nothing is (paradoxically) the 'thing' we must avoid at all costs.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'  Alfred Lord Tennyson

'Ever tried. Ever failed.No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.' Samuel Beckett
'He who dares wins, Rodney' William Shakespeare

You get the gist. I've tried the Barcelona style, very fancy, very expensive, very...irritating. I want to go back to Wimbledon, route one, I want the crazy gang, I want it to be...emotional.

Being a fish out of water is ok for a while, but then you get a bit panicky, specially when size nines are squeezing down on your gills. Deep down I know what this is all about, deep down I have no clue what it is all about.A Dickensian paradox.The best of times; the worst of times. Paradoxes galore this night, brother,sister.

But really we do know it is the worst, we are the lucky ones, which is why we must pluck the best from the gutter, the swamp, the greed, the ego, the abyss.I have stared into the eyes of the poetry Tyger; It is beautiful (I'm lying for the sake of balance), it is ugly, it is ruthless, it sees the world, it promises salvation, it is cold, red hot, knows of everything but cares for no-one but itself. Fuck fearful symmetry.

What does it all mean, dear reader? Unfortunately I have only questions. And the people who have the answers, who stick by them, cast them in concrete, do not like questions. Questions lead to change, nobody wants that?

I don't know what this is. All I know is it feels GOOD!

The weekly prompt is back. It would be the best of times if people joined in. Tell your friends, inform your enemies

Saturday, March 9, 2013

New Poem

One Scream

There’s  two screens
One watching us watching you
The other a blank
We should have a gun for melody
As we sink this ship as we
Throw life lines
Like caution, to the wind
Keep it simple
Follow your instinct
We are extinct
Before we know
Go with the flow like dead fish
And the latest a tax
Distracted from the dream degrees from the ideal home
Exhibition stuff
The land's cabin 13
Room for one ‘o‘ one
Tug ‘o’ war man ‘o’ war
There’s a harsh edge to this taste
A machine gunfire the latest light.