Friday, May 29, 2009
Unless of course you die today, in which case you're fucked.
This and many other pearls of wisdom will be available in ' The Guineys Book of Bollix' as soon as the recession is over and a multi million euro publishing deal is done.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
1) My posters are clearly higher up the lamposts than any other candidate
2) I have by far the most posters
3) My posters are larger than the other posters
4) My posters have an airbrushed professional quality appearance
5) My posters have a lovely white edge all the way around
6) My posters are made of highly durable weather and re-cycle proof highly flammable unbiodegradable potentially toxic indestructable mutant ninja plastic
7) Win lose or draw ,without fear or favour I solemnly vow to leave my posters up for ,at the very least , six months after the election.
But don't be fooled into thinking this campaign is ALL about posters, no my friends, there's a little bit more to local politics than that!
8) I have bought lovely new tracksuits for myself and all the family of every GAA and Soccer cliub in the town and will wear them for all informal pictures
9) Perhaps the most important reason of all for voting for me is that my father ,his father and his fathers father and my first cousin were all previously elected so I must be a great man altogether.
10) If I meet any of you , my electorate, in any bar across town and you give me a bit of a digout, even as little as €100 (cash only now mind ) I will buy that man woman or child a pint.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Someone will surely be found dead in an upside down car in the river before this election is out.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
there's too many shit poets
on the pages of today
soon to be yesterday
like all those other intermediate freaks
and I'm thinking
there's poetry under
every stone unturned
pulsing to the beat
of a different drum
and I'm tired of phonetics poetics
tired of the pose, legs crossed ,book at the ready,
head in the hedonism
the barrage of the bard ,economy lost in ego,
cock sure of themselves-
misses the point entirely .
Only self doubt blossoms in reality
literary hyperbole weaks on end of yet another loved song
of the siren of the self.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Fuck the Fish forget the O'Faolain, don't dig the Davy Byrne, shag the something beginning with S, the only awards worth a shite are D'EEjit awards.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Liz Gallagher -a great talent, her first poetry collection 'The wrong miracle' due out from Salt in september, she bloggs at http://agcaint.blogspot.com/ and http://thewrongmiracle.blogspot.com/
PJ Nolan http://pjnolan.blogspot.com/ poet, reviewer, artist, sketcher- is there no end to this man's talents? His latest incredible success is to be selected for the highly prestigious Royal Hibernian Academy annual exhibition in Dublin undoubtedly the artistic highlight of the year and something that I have wanted to be in for years, without success.
Jeanne Iris Lakatos http://iconicrealism.blogspot.com/ Connecticut university professor, poet, theorist, intellectual, always friendly whether rain or shine. Her next book will be an academic profile of Lady Morgan.
Oh, yeah,I forgot,I think ye are supposed to pass this award onto deserving causes and post a link back to my blog.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I've been awarded this title by my good blogpal poetikat http://www.hyggedigter.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Okay, we were programmed, installed.
But without hands on the keys
there is only impatience, anxiety,
a lack; of
the new deity.
is the new today-
it never comes.
And also, but if and but,
duality, both poles
under, beside, beneath
the same sun?
Rising, setting sons,
beautiful danger, dreamer.
And if , if; was ,was.
What then? If then was happiness,
is all we knew, what then, of now?
* source - The Guiney's book of Bollix, unavailable at any good bookstore near you now.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Live recording of John Spillane's song with Christy Moore, Donal Lunny, Declan Sinnott and John Spillane.Never seen the other lads live but last saw Christy Moore in concert on his 50th birthday in Manchester, I think he's sixty three now-where did all dem years go ta?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Is it the occasionally milder temperature ?
Have I seen a Swallow? Yes!
-but that is not the answer.
Is it because young wans are wearing flimsy clothing in the lashing rain?
Is it because beligerent blind-drunk neighbours are now burning burgers and basting botulism on the back-lit, covered in shit, back-yard, Barbecue?
Is it because the clapped-out Ice cream Van is driving up and down the road in a cloud of Diesel fumes playing match of the day theme tune 24/7 ?
Is it because toddlers are out from the crack of dawn whoopin and a hollerin and murtherin each other,all equiped with lightsabers and, much more dangerously, vocal chords that make Tom Jones sound like a whispering Nun?
( By the way if any of you ever happen to meet the Welsh warbler and he sallying forth with a murderous rendition of somebody else's half decent song ,would you please tell him in no uncertain terms, ' That is not singing, that is shouting! ' and really ,really, shout the 'shouting' bit right in to one of his pachedermical, leathery ,(and presumably) deaf ears.
No ,comrades, friends ,Ramones, journeymen/women,culchies, jackeens, fellow bloggers, humans, aliens,Liverpoolfans,No and thrice nay, tis all of these but none of these, for the single clarion note and harbinger of Summer is the buzz of the BLUEBOTTLE,that most annoying of all summertime apparitions. Worse than the wasp, all BUZZ,BUZZ, BUZZ, licking at ,and puking on ,your food , then blasting around the room and your head at ninety miles an hour annoying the living feck out of ye , goading ye into leaping up like Bruce Lee and a hundred Mutant Ninja Turtles with a rolled up newspaper to do battle with the blue-arsed little bastard for ten minutes till exhausted and breathless and then ????................ Silence. Pin-dropping audible silence. Till you finally relax and sit down again and then be da hokey ,the airborne chainsaw restarts himself revving like an overtuned italian moped. You leep to your feet once more, gnashing teeth and spillling bourbons, tea/whiskey/beer/Irish Times/Playboy, to the ground , in the 180- over-99-blood-pumping-desire to do battle unto death with the hyper wound winged marauder.Then, then, then , but then ,soft , my friends-we have him cornered on the window pane, the battle is over the coup de grace held in abeyance ,merciful in victory we open wide the window for the annoying little prick to fly out.Beneficent, magnanimous, noble.But the moronic little fucker crawls and buzzes incessantly against the hard glass pane ignoring his offered , easy ,obvious, escape route to freedom, so with a curse and a swipe you splat his ignorant little guts and blood against the sport pages of yestedays newspaper.Fuck him!