Goodly news ,goodly news.

My favourite magazine in the whole wide world 'The SHOp' http://www.theshop-poetry-magazine.ie/ has accepted one of me poems. I'm totally delighto.
YAAAABBBAAADDDAAABBBAAADDDOOOO!!!!!!!!

It is a poem that will change your life and possibly the way that you walk , it has answers to questions that haven't even been asked yet, it will make you smile on the outside while weeping bitterly like a Liverpool fan on the inside, it will bring down walls and re-point chimneys, it will tell you everything while giving nothing away, it will cure warts, the common cold, PMT and premature male baldness, it has already been turned into a religion by tribes living along the banks of the Limpopo river and in south-east Carlow ,it has been used as a totally carbon neutral replacement for all fossil fuels and will soon be available at petrol stations across the developed world at a cost of just 12 cent per litre , yet will yield up to 200mpg in the average family saloon.(unless it's a Ford, Fords are shite especially Mondeos, I hate them and what a stupid name FFS)In short it has been hailed as a panacea for all the ills and woes of modern man and a woman. I'm sure some of you out there are asking yourselves 'But poetry changes nothing, can a single poem, even one by the legendary genius that is EEjit, can it really do all this?' Well let me tell you brothers, sisters,YES IT CAN! *

*Source- Guineys book of Bollix.Terms and condiments apply, apart from the fact that EEjit really is getting his blather published, TFE plc totally reserve the right to deny any of the rest of this information at a future juncture, investments may go up, or down , as well as around The Red Cow Roundabout, your home may not be safe if it has woodworm. TFE plc is a subsidiary of MUIAGSICDWIL (my uncle is a guard so i can do wot i like)

COW CAT.Totally the greatest poem ever written?

Cow-cat, Cow-cat ,
You know where it’s at, man.
A real coolio Daddy cat,
No bread and Honey, that would be funny,
You aint no fat cat
Out late at night life is black and white
like your fur, hear you purr, the lady cats think
you’re so cool you’re Fresian.
But what are you at, cat?
Don’t you hear the car coming ?
Soft rubber Pirelli tyres humming
You’d better scat, this
Driver is a speedy twat,
not doing his Honda Civic duty,
thinks his blinged-out ride’s a beauty,
too late –SPLAT!
Now you are flat,
like a pancake or,
a furry Cow-cat pat,
Holy cow, cat ,you
were from where it’s at
and without you,
it just aint there any more,
Drat!

It's like TOTALLYPOPTASTIC

Just got issue numero uno of 'popshot' poetry + illustration magazine-'the wonder of the ordinary' And I have to say I think it's great and different and stylish and new.The pages are black and the ink is white and each poem gets a full page illustration all of which are totally superb and worth buying the magazine (£6 inc p+p) for on their own..and there's a two page centrefold illustration too.Some of the poems are better than others but our own Nuala Ni Chonchuir is in there (and everywhere at the moment) and that's always a good thing.It's a great little magazine where perhaps the poetry accompanies the pictures and not the other way round.They'll be looking for (poetry) submissions from 1st May but no details of how the illustrators get in.It's a mag I'd like to be in so I'll give it a lash and if you are an illustrator I would definitely recommend getting in touch, it's a real showcase for your work. Buy it if you can comrades and wish it every success.

Click on the collage above to make it bigger and if you'd like to know more then check out their website http://www.popshotpopshot.com/popshot.html

I'M GREAT !!!

I recently completed my first ever short story and I'm delighted with it ,partly because it's a story and it's short and therefore fulfills the criteria of the genre, but mainly because it's the best story ever written*. Which is pretty good for a first attempt.It has everything you expect of a top notch shorty, it's full of words and people and Tayto crisps and incredibly it's also got stuff like punctuation -some of which is even in the right place! I'm new to this form but if there is a short story equivalent of 'The Booker prize' I'll definitely win it and the money will sure come in handy as here at the castle a couple of chimeys, a gargoyle ,and most of the staff, need repointing. But back to the story; it's hard to define though I'd have to say it's a bit of a comedy and a tragedy.I'm not sure if it's a tragi-comedy , or comi- tragedy, but either way it's the meaning of life explained in 1500 words, 1475 of which are the same word,but there's a very good reason for this and a clever twist explaining all right at the end, just like Jonathon Creek. I've called it 'The meaning of life-the greatest story ever told, in a short story' I thought I better set my stall out from the start-no point in hiding your talent under a bushel and it's the kind of sexy snappy title that just seduces you into wanting more. And believe me there is plenty more for the inquisitive reader, murder, mayhem ,love, hate,jealousy, ham sandwiches and a betterware catalogue.This is a story that will make you cry and weep at the same time.it will make you question everything and give you all the answers, believe me you haven't read anything till you've read this story but be careful for when you do your life will never be the same again!
Available soon in a bookstore near you soon, real soon like really soon, or prepublication hand- signed, signed A4 sized,signed (Tesco's 'finest') copies can be ordered here (signed)at the castle at introductory special offer price of €19.99 per story or €30.00 for two if you want to treat yourself and surprise a loved one/neighbour / friend/bank manager.

*source-Guiney's book of Bollix.

Not out of the woods, yet.

POETRY IS...........


A misheard word
A broken promise
A burnt letter
A lie
The juice of a clockwork orange
The secret code
A cry for help
A set of keys
An un-pickable lock
Lost in France
The gap between beating hearts
The grit in the sandal
The Oysters pearl
The ribbon of truth
The piss on the pedestal.

Working things out still

and of course by 'poets' I don't mean any of my fellow bloggers/bloggerettes, we is all cool man , by poets I is actually referring to...........well now that would be telling wouldn't it?


Well it’s the year of the Leper

You can ring my bell
as I wander the streets in wonder
at the graffiti and if Art makes a mockery of us-
or the other way around,
I may need another drink.
Among all these ‘poets’
I would suffer a fool most gladly
None of us really know what suffering is,
chattering maybe, have
to think about that.
Depends on the wind
which ways words weave
webs among the willows
Watch them, read them, weep.
And the cherry blossom
waiting so long to do just that,
and for what, our pleasure?
Measuring our dreams
floating away on the summer breeze
humming to the birds, whispering
answers lost like shifting sand ‘till
I’m the Plastic Paddy in Casablanca
‘Play it again Sam,
Play it.
You know how to play it doncha?-
Just put the fuse wires together,
and blow.’

Learning the steps for Lanigan's ball

Six long months ,or was it years I spent learning the steps for Lanigans ball? Doing time with Ronnie Delaney's donkey before the half mile race.And I'm still running (though not in the running) but the rotund woman sungeth allelujah donkey's years ago.I'm in the metal box again but today the blinds are up and I'm looking out through the round window, I can see the skies and the green of the fields, how low they lie around Athens and Athenry .I hear the Greek and double-Dutch Olympiads of olde, selling thirty pieces of silver for the gold. I'm watching hope sail out against the tidal waves of, of , of of of of of ?????

Ah to die ,to be truly dead, that must be glorious, said the Vampire to the leech.Fuck that says the Leech, have ye never seen Blue Peter? Death be-bollox , here's one I made earlier.

TotalfeckinEEjit is back in the building

Blogging writing drinking.Thinking (despite empirical evidence to the contrary ) that if he(speaking in the third person again , warning sign) keeps at them, reality will be held in abeyance, the darkness snuffed out. Life is inexorable and the older you get the more inexorable it becomes The Devil is in the detail my comrades,the boulders keep us forever on the brink ,tis the grain of sand will tip us to the abyss. As Elbow (on my playlist) so awkwardly yet eloquently put it 'There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I can't help but fall' Well that's pretty much how I feel, right now, it will change ,but what use is change? Just a different perspective of sameness, a shifting of unchanging sands. Life may be a mystery but it isn't a riddle.
Only poets read poetry , deep down ,perhaps,all they (we?) really want to read is their (our?) own.There's too much, way too much, more than anyone person could read in a lifetime,and still it's churned out inexorably( mea culpa) and for why? How many ways can it be said, what can be expressed that hasn't already been said and probably better.All meaning has been lost. Lost, not as the questionable aphorism says , in translation , but in publication. Ultimately apart from the pat on the ego what is the difference between a published and an unpublished poem? A hill of beans,gaze upon them ye mighty.What makes Shelley (beyond ego ) suppose that art is any more worthy a legacy than a kingdom made of stone or even two trunkless legs.Who do we think we are ? And I mean we for I might not get published much but I'm always thinking about it.

TotalfeckinEEjit has left the building.

There's too much poetry in the world

This is not a poem

This night, here was, here is?
Well let me start again, verbatim.
I have a wife, a son, a life, choice,
a real dog, a plough, a bull and seven sisters.
I have nothing any person could want,
I have everything.
Is there anything lonelier than the distant light
of a ship at black of night ?
(I brought home this thorn with me
under my skin.)
A blackbird broke the silence,
an alarm call.
I could see the dark side of the moon, the veil lifted.
My shoes did their job, my coat protecting me,
from the cold damp earth.
I saw fences keeping things in
and keeping things out,
broken in all the right places.
Like right minds

Poetry is shite .No it isn't. Yes it is.

So poetry is shite I'm thinking as yet another competition rears it's ugly head,ugly because I can't waste the dosh to enter it.But then I always thought poets were supposed to be poor? well looks like you have to be fairly well off to be a poet these days. (Unless you get grants or buraries but then it seems only those who don't really need them qualify for them.)The gas thing is I bet if the Patrick Kavanagh award had been going on when he was alive -he wouldn't have been able to afford to enter it.So I'm feeling pissed off with poetry and prizes and books and bursaries and awards and accolades and famous seamus and his birthday and I take a walk with the dog just before midnight and it's cold and clear and you can see every star in the cosmos and a moon low and huge and orange like a fat pumpkin.But I'm thinking of the lies of the skies glittering, glistering, just like fake jewels like poetry.Half those stars are dead and this moon does not shine ,just reflects the light of the sun.A cod.Then a street light goes out and I'm plunged into truer darkness and in the same instant - a shooting star overhead full of last second vivacity and I'm struck by the fact that the street light was man-made but the stars above are not and perhaps poetry is not.And I'm full of enthusiasm again (ok and drink) and rush home to get my camera for in my warped perception I see photographs as poems and I want to capture this blood orange orb bleeding across the sea and it's rising behind me as I rush and losing colour and by the time i get back to the edge of the trees and begin my beachward descent into black it's not half the picture it was.I crash on through the bushes but the dog won't follow in the dark, loses where I am and runs off so i run after her and take 10 minutes to find her and coax her as far as she'll go, open up the tripod and one leg keeps sliding down and I keep tightening and it keeps sliding and i keep tightening clockwise anti clockwise and back again till I figure it.I haven't a feckin clue what settings the camera is on but being smart I have a torch, one of those minilites that you see in action films with guys/gals holding them in their mouth as bathed in sweat and against the clock they cut the right wire to diffuse the bomb and save the day.I puts it in my mouth but haven't switched it on and go to grab it and fumble and its gone into the black never to be seen again among the long invisible grass.Fuck it and now the moon is boring white and high in the sky and I was right, all poetry is a sham.

He says, she says. Part 3.

She says: Does this make me look fat?

He (knowing hesitate and you are lost) says : No you look grand!

He thinks to himself : women are never fat , clothes just make them look that way.Repeat and learn, repeat and learn.

She says : Which looks better, the red dress or the black one?

He starts to sweat now, this is the 64,000 dollar question ,a question that the wisdom of Solomon could not safely answer. Caught between the pit and the pendulum he prevaricates knowing he is merely playing for time, his execution held in abeyance then somewhat feebly and to her mind predictably

He says : They're (gulp) both nice!
then laughs nervously.

She says: What are you laughing at?

He says : Oh nothing, you know me , I'm such an EEjit.

She purrs seductively , coyly, demurely : Go on , choose one , I don't mind.

Now he's an apeman thinking with his trousers and not his head and foolishly, giving his honest opinion

He says: I really like the red one!

The purring pussycat is now a hunting leopard.

She growls: Why? What's wrong with the black one?

Now confidence shrivelling like his manhood knowing the trap has been sprung again, and sweating like a monk at a lap dance

He says: Nothing, nothing at all.

She says rounding on him like a vexed wasp : Then why did you choose, the red one? Is it because the black one is too subtle? Do you want me to look like that tart of a barmaid in Dolan's, is that it? She had a red dress on last Friday and didn't you love it? I saw you looking at her, don't think I didn't notice.............

He says: But , but..

She says: Never mind but ,but, - I don't know why I ever married you!

Poteen is like sex

Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good. Actually that's not true at all.Poteen is like a trip to the dentists, even when it's good, it's still pretty bad . Now I come from a long line of Hacklers and the potato punch has been furtively handed around to friends and neighbours or hidden in hedges in Lucozade bottles and holy water bottles by generations of EEjits. Now, there's only one definitive test for poteen , forget the silvery cigarette paper and lighter , the spoon and the spots, here's what you do.

At night drink a whole bottle of Poteen, do that funny little dance around the brush on the floor with all the family ,when the DT's kick in, go to bed.Then when you wake up in the morning ,you will probably be blind.If the blindness is temporary, then it's good Poteen.If however you are permanently blinded and all your teeth are on the pillow,that is bad poteen. Being dead in the morning is another sign for bad Poteen.So there you have it, a definitive test for Poteen* Enjoy!

*As will appear in the reprint of Guineys book of bollix, if it is ever reprinted, or even published in the first place.

TOTALFECKINEEJIT, HE SAYS.....

Having spent 6 months of last year in a cave high up in the Tibetan mountains with nothing but cans of Special Brew ,Jars of peanut butter and the sound of silence for company,I came to a few conclusions that may be wrong o,r maybe right ,but they are all part of the process of being.I will share some of the thoughts that flew into the cave on the summer winds.

Always listen to advice, but don't always take it.The roads to enlightment are as many and as varied as the flowers on this earth. What is right for one person may not be right for another.You must find your own path and ultimately this must be done alone, from within. If we drop the key to our house and it falls in the dark, that is where we must look, it is easier to search in the light but that would be fruitless as the key will not be found.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Yes, you, Mrs Beautiful EEjit, 40 years old today ,the measure of my dreams and still as gorgeous as the day we got married.

Hey turn on da speakers they're playing our song (sorry ,it'll have to be Damo, the Pogues seems to be barred from me playlist)

Let's go to Costa ,the sticky buns are on me! (no jokes please) When I say 'today' I mean tomorrow (Thurs 2nd April), but by the time you read this it will be tomorrow,which will of course then be today, not this actual day -today ,because tomorrow ,today will be yesterday.

With lots of love from Mr Totalfeckineejit. There that shook ye , Mrs O' :)

Be the way ye don't look a day over 39.

AT LONG LAST - A RHYME FOR ORANGE !!!

Okay, so there was Lozenge but that was only a pararhyme -close,but no cigar.Fear not my friends I bring goodly news ,especially for all you rhyming poets out there struggling with a fruity ode. According to 'New Scientist magazine' we will shortly have a more potentially 'everyday' household word - 'The Borange'.

Cuban scientists ,after a decade of genetic research, have finally managed to combine a banana with an orange.Big deal ye might cry, a mushy mishapen hybrid no doubt ,but No ,for here's the clever bit that took so long , the fruit looks and peels exactly like an orange but inside are alternating segments of pure orange and pure banana ! How cool is that? And there's more! An orange has 11 segments so is difficult to divide in half, the mighty Borange however has 12 segment,six banana and six orange-Perfecto!

The whole project was the brainchild of an Saudi Arabian oil sheik who got the inspiration from an American hamburger joint that used mayonnaise and tomato ketchup squeezed out in stripes from a single tube.How wonderful it would be, he thought ,to combine his two favourite fruits.He then commisioned 3 leading fruit geneticists to work on the project.The only downside is that thus far the Borange trees have only produced 5 fruit at a cost of ONE MILLION DOLLARS each!!!!! However the Cubans are confident that mass production is only 12 months away with modified irradiated quick growing trees and that the Borange business could net annual profits of 500 million globally by 2012. Wow, can't wait ,I wonder will they stock them in Aldi?