Friday, March 29, 2013

What chance of a sign of the spring?

                               The wind is blowing from the east.
                                      And it's fierce cold.

The Canal In March by 'Nice Eye' Conor Ferguson

She said with determined death defying determination
to the equally defiant grey male beside.
Flashing silver educated lucky in their decent Terenure stride.
And good on them.

But nobody fed me
My defiance today.
And listen here.
I got the Solzhenitsyn shivers.
I got that Stalin dread.
I got Dostoevsky horrors.
I got Gogols in my head.

It's so fucking Siberian.
God damn it.
It's so Artic around here.
I could really do with some sunshine.
Sted of this blood soaked below zero lithuathian nationalist affair.

Sweet mother of jesus
Sweet mother of jesus
I'm the last to talk of the weather.
But what chance of a sign of the spring?
What chance of a sign of the spring?

Monday, March 18, 2013

Genocide Is My Man United

To Mark Shanley

I asked was asked the other day
What sport I followed
I replied.
Cos genocide is my Manchester United.
It just is.
I love the pin ups.
I love the stars.
Idi Amin Benjamin Netanyahu Pol Pot Saddam Hussein George Bush
You name them.
And what's that geezer from central Africa?
Yep him.
The French cannibal scandal one.

All the boys.
Always the boys.
We do such great extremism.
Us boys.

We'll have none of those women and their difference.
We don't do difference.
You hear me?
We achieve goals.
Scorched earth pitches.
Teenage catatonia.
Babies aged by disbelief.
That's genocide for you.

Genocide is my Man United.

Friday, March 15, 2013


(Respect to T.S.)

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

Kitty Cats by Gary Coyle

I  wish all the women in their 40s
Would just find their lost cats.
I wish all the cats would just go home.

I wish they would take down all the signs

LOST - Scaredy Cat

LOST - Kitty Cat

Seriously cats
Just go home.
Cos your owners really scare me.
And the ghosts of long gone young girls
They laugh at me.
"Grey" they call me.

And I hear them snigger as I try to scale a wall.

Stop it
Stop it
Stop it

Unleash the dogs.
Send the cats home.
Bring back the girls.
I preferred the girls.
I really did.
I really preferred them
To the worried look
Of women alone in their 40s
Looking for their lost cats.

Don't they know how much it scares me
That worried look
Of women alone in their 40s
Looking for lost cats


Tuesday, March 12, 2013


There is a man in Greece whom I have never met.
He goes by the name Ephilant.
He appears to run a homeless hostel.
A family.
And a vivid account of the ongoing Greek tragedy.
He's a one man full blown chorus.
You can tune into his alert observations and cries of alive anger
In addition to all that Ephilant has also spent the last two months tirelessly bringing my book alive with both artistic flair and technical awe.
And then in addition to that addition, there's his work constructing the online publishing house and shop which will carry and sell the book all as part of the
The fact that this is taking place as the Oireachtas Committee on Social Media sits to debate legislation while old media shrieks hysteria is not coincidental

Anyhow while Ephilant and PW gaffer Cactus Flower have been running the construction site, I have been sending out the odd preview copy to people looking for advice and reaction.

One such preview just led to the offer of my first gig at the Dalkey Book festival.
Dalkey seemed to want me to present a show, something that reflected the spectacle of the book.
A reading alone might not achieve that.

So I sent an e-mail out to all those involved in the book asking if anyone had any ideas or issues that merited highlighting and that I could, within reason, work into the show.

There were already some obvious candidates like my dear friend Frank Rynne and his Sufi sonic subversives The Master Musicians of Joujouka
All rich and ripe material for yarn.

Similarly for colour, there's Herman Vanaerschot - who designed the book - and his own stunning Joujouka photography Joujouka Some Stones
This magical photo essay of the annual festival in the village has already picked up over 12,000 views.
But it merits many thousand more.

I was wondering if there was anything similar I could do for any of those who worked on the book  whom I have never met.

Anyhow I cut the crap with Ephilant.

I asked him directly was there anything he wanted me to convey

This is what I got back.

I assured him I would do my best.

Ok, a yarn you will have, it is called Greece, a drama in far too many acts. People, corruption, victims and more victims. The stench of money, power and greed that manages to mask the stench of the poverty, hunger, illness and self-inflicted deaths it generates. The stench of the politics of finance trampling all over a good natured people simply asking for their basic right to live a somewhat enjoyable life. The faceless fascist lurking in dark corners, back stabbing in the name of culture and purity. Greece 2013. We have turned the corner!
A new born baby wondering why it is once again born in a disused stable. Will they ever get it right?
Manolis, his wife and 3 children, wrongly convicted by anonymous faces far away to a life in a Hiace van at the side of the road. 83 year old Eleanna walking the fields again, like she did when she was little. Maybe she will find some food today. If she doesn’t,  she goes hungry. Like she did when she was a child
And beautiful Eleni, such a bright future, destroyed by invisible hands pulling invisible strings. Yesterday she was reading psychology at Iraklio university, today, she doesn’t even own her body any more. 20 € a poke, 25  if you like living dangerously. Too many Elenis these days. None of them have any tears left.
I meet them every day, after they realize the money  made with their body isn’t theirs but must be handed over to some pimp, like our country was handed over to the neo liberal pimps so that they can try out their newest bonga bonga gig.
They queue for food, wearing bad make-up and torn clothes. They are the men, women and children of Greece, pimped out by their government  at the behest of the anonymous puppet masters. Prostituted to appease the God of More. I meet them every day, after they have been used, abused and spat out by the priests of the Church of More. And in the morning, the nightmare starts all over again.
And I count my blessings for the privilege given of meeting these people who despite their daily torment still manage a smile and a friendly word. Who will forgo their portion because there isn’t enough for the new arrivals. For Eleni who once again got bruised and battered last night but enquires if the finger I cut this morning is ok. For Manolis who is happy because his epileptic boy only had 2 seizures yesterday, despite him not being able to buy the medicine he needs. For Eleanna who shuffles through the door with the bunch of Rocula she cut this morning, which is far too much for her, but the poor can eat it. For my children who help in the food kitchen and learn the lesson of life from the masters in front of them. And for Greece being what it is,  and despite everything, being the only place I really want to be.