miceal-kearney
Irish
Started writing poetry in 2001. / / Read at the Vilenica Festival, Slovenia; / The Green Mill Room, Chicago; and The Whitehouse- (no, not 1600 P. Ave) / / Won the 2006 Cuisle Poetry Slam, the 2007 Cuirt Grand Slam; the 2007 Baffle Bard, the 2007 North Beach Poetry Nights' Grand Slam and the 2008 In Slight of Raftery Slam. I read as part of Poetry Irelands Introduction Series in 2009. / / In 2008, Doire Press published my 1st book; Inheritance- / / 'Not yet a number in the system, / the only record of its existence– / a drag mark through the shit.' / / Currently working on my 2nd book; Interest.
Taking to the bed. Lingering.
Until a box carried you out.
I always hoped it would be quick;
a car crash, a stroke, the bull —
to spare you.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
In a creepy cold attic
laughing and joking with Santa
lies the Red King.
Time is there too
and they play with the Moon
on creaky old floorboards —
the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny
even the Bogyman makes an appearance.
For the length of the night
each share the others loss
in a support group for the bereaved.
When alarm clocks below wake the world,
they all vanish, leaving only Time
alone. Taking a shard
from the window pain
bleeds out into day.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 3:47 PM UTC
She stands up, grabbing my attention
takes her handbag from off the chair
I follow her out for a cigarette
I didn’t smoke
but started then.
Back between the noisy bottles and empty glasses
she causally informs me
what she did
in-front of the mirror
as a teenager. Regardless,
I’ll abort another potential child
onto the sheets tonight.
I tell her how I try
to right poetry,
she laughs; complains of the weather
then asks: would you like me to come with you home.
She adds with wink pun intended.
Yes, oh God yes.
When the morning came
she had vanished.
With the passing of a moon
an envelope arrived containing
a positive stick. And an ode —
Thanks for the passport,
Mr poet man.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 3:42 PM UTC
1
I wasn’t suppose to go this far,
my stop was Cavan but I fell asleep
now I’m in Belfast. ****
next bus tomorrow.
Lucky I never leave home without it.
A room in the Europa —
watching a P.C version of Family Guy
for fuck-sake, it’s 2am.
Halfway late to the station
Clint Eastwood grabs me outside H.M.V
tells me: Gran Tournio is out on DVD.
As the machine gargles my receipt,
the newest member claiming
to be the true voice of Northern Ireland’s people
spoke at the station. I felt so lucky,
because I would, later, find you.
2
It's half past eight. In this housing estate,
Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work.
God I'm so ****** Spent the night watching
9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy.
I sent you a txt at five past one.
Wish I could have whispered it into your ear.
I know it will be hours before you wake.
The thing with having small arms —
it drives you to reach the top shelf.
The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon
composed The Dawn Chorus
to signal a day; glorious,
still far from over.
When I stay over, you’re 9ft away —
alone in another room. May as well
be a mile past the edge of the universe.
You give me your jumper to take to bed,
to touch, to smell. And again,
as I am leaving home; as now —
sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining,
but I'm in love with you.
3
Anyone sitting here?
5 minutes ago
we were thrusting in the toilets.
Our clothes take the stance
of opposing forces. Our alibi.
Tongues become txts.
I always have credit when in character.
With you beside me
I would **** half the people here,
friends and colleagues alike.
Beat them to death.
Cave in their heads with my fists,
stop when punching carpet —
just so the remaining half could see
how tender I can hold you.
Our eyes transfixed, unwilling
to focus on anything else —
the place could be burning down
and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact
that I can not read and you can not write.
4
It’s something truly fantastic,
secretly held love —
pure ****** in ****** veins.
We came out
in McDonagh’s Fish and Chip shop.
Held hands above the table.
And lips. Some of the dinners
couldn’t care. Others said Uh …
and finished off their Haggis.
5
Having spent the past 3 hours
in this 1950’s spider-infested
green and white Telecom Eireann phone-box,
I have concluded that
you were a miserable ***** towards the end.
The passing headlights, blinkered by the rain
decrease the potential of my thumb:
I have 2 more hours to wait —
giving me time to reflect.
Furthermore, if I'd my entire life to live over,
despite the 2 restraining orders
and my car being crushed into a cube,
the only thing I'd change:
has not changed since I first told you;
then we held each other asleep
as one breath.
I still cry at night.
Nine years I had that car.
6
Back with Bús Éireann
trying not to fall asleep.
Again.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
Squish! … Squish! ... Squish! ... Squish!
Despite their many legs
caterpillars can not move
very fast.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
Extending my sleeves past my frozen fingers,
it is -3 and handles of anything
get extremely bitter this time of year.
I fork in splinters of silage
#235 pokes her head out through the feeder.
I have plans for you Missy Moo —
well: our progeny.
Provided you’re in calf;
provided you stay in calf;
provided you calf down successfully;
provided it lives long enough to be killed.
If not, I’ll probably sell you
and buy an in-calf heifer instead.
No pressure.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
I shoot dead dogs
who savage my flock.
250 pellets rip open
**** this little kids pet.
Sometimes, I have to use
another cartridge
to finish what Fluffy started.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
1
The Clowns in Brussels Sprouts
have sent me a notebook. Tossers.
The latest thrilling instalment from ******** Creek.
The Animal Events Recording Notebook —
fits in your pocket,
if it happens to be a school bag.
A little picture on the cover
Jack, the farmer, a cow and her calf.
Equally gay as it is oxymoronically inaccurate.
No sign of a tag on either the cow or calf.
The cow has a pair of horns
that would **** any animal, never mind the farmer,
statistically dead. Plus,
the calf’s a bit too healthy looking
and the cow ain’t trying to **** the farmer either.
Between the covers coloured-coded sections
chronicling the animal’s progress
from Foetus to Fork.
2
Though, I do thoroughly enjoy filling out those
additional comment columns.
De-horning
Next to castrating lambs,
I love this job —
all-the-more if there’s a gang.
The first has no idea what coming
and the last wishes they weren’t.
But seriously, I’d say it hurts.
A lot.
Castration
See Revival, issue 6 P.14 —
revised in Inheritance P.26
Weaning
Always good for poem.
I laugh from the comfort of my bed.
Ye’re only halfway lads
And how far along are you?
They inquire back.
3
Ok, I get it. Seriously.
Stop depleting the rainforests please …
I have my own notebook thanks.
I understand their dilemma.
They fear mindsets will be inherited
form the old flock, the old stock —
the canners and brass tags —
who never converted.
It’s like auld women and the church
engrained since birth
and no amount of jibber-jabber will sway.
So they concentrate, groom us
weanling growing up
in the Age of A.I.M
on BETTER Farms
4
Regardless, the second you tag a calf,
the cunt’ll croak. So wink, wink:
so not to jinx yourself
and have to write a cheque;
adjust your Balance Sheet,
invariably affecting your Gross Margin.
I know … I know
S.M.R 6, 7 and all that $*@#
But it’s so cold the frost is complaining.
Plus, they said on the radio: be kind
leave food out for the birds.
I’m just thinking of the foxes.
And, if anyone asks —
she never came in calf
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 2:27 PM UTC
It could be any night, it just happens to be Tuesday
in the trailer outside Jerry’s
I remark — as he slices her open —
I’m missing Grey’s Anatomy.
Her guts pop out like balloons,
not as neat as the text books in college.
Long enough since her water broke,
hope’s gone home to bed.
(Where I want to be.)
Reaching her womb, he pauses …
blank expression on his face.
Then he sneezes and yanks out the lamb.
Silent, but weak.
The kettle in my kitchen boils,
stream that episode of Grey’s as I,
the Pyrex jug and bottle head down to the shed.
Place the lamb on my lap, kissing his forehead —
C’mon little man, don’t deny me the satisfaction
of taking your testicles.
He’s slow at first, but soon finds second gear
and discover he’s the stomach to back it up.
Eyes loud. Tiny tongue accelerating …
***** pucks the *** write off the bottle.
Delays in delivery deprive oxygen.
Sometimes you get away with it.
I’ve seen this before. There’s jelly
in his legs that will never set;
despite all his attempts he’ll never stand.
Whenever I can bring myself
I’ll have to get the sledge.
You can’t even imagine the mess
the first time, now
I use a length of plastic
from the silage pit.
Wrap. Whack.
Amen little man.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 1:23 PM UTC
The year I would turn nine
Charlie Kelly threw his pint over Paul Brennan
in the opening scenes of a new Irish drama
called Fair City. The 25th Dáil was dissolved.
Ireland got its 1st lotto millionaire.
There was talk of mining for gold in Mayo
and Christy O’Connor Jnr
won the Ryder Cup for Europe.
(Years later playing Trivial Pursuit
one of the questions wanted to know:
what profession gets the Ryder Cup? —
a cousin from Carlow answered; prostitutes.)
I was growing through 3rd class
St. Brendan’s National School; Loughrea —
on the other side of Tiananmen Square
another student stood up
as the Guildford Four walked free
after 14 years innocently incarcerated.
While in Germany, a wall
that had been built to divide: separate, fell.
Pushed over by people. While Hungry, Poland
and Czechoslovakia: all said: enough.
The Russians left Afghanistan and in South Africa
Apartheid began to crumble. Pity
it was allowed to even begin.
Iran was ****** off about some book
and on Christmas Day in Romania
Mr and Mrs Ceausescu were executed.
In 1989, the Church of Ireland allowed female priests.
96 people died at Hillsborough.
Haughey was Taoiseach,
Mr. Heaney was conferred
as Professor of Poetry at Oxford
and we qualified for Italia 90.
I was 9 and the only thing I remember
about that year; I fell out of a tree
and broke my arm.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 11:53 AM UTC