Pliny the somethingth's request for a title
put through the paces of a mincing machine
will form this, the entirety of my presentation,
to you, paid for by the flatulence tax.  

VAT fantastic.  I love the Government.

They're dropping bombs on Syria.  
It's Tories to the centre left,
or ****** policy to welfare,
my neighbour to my neighbour.  

397 to 223,
or 40 million to the rest.

I love the feel of a dusty parcan without a bulb,
or electrics, or anything at all except an empty shell,
In another life I lived alone, and kept lamps as pets.  
Birdies flying around my head, and cantatas doing what they do,
barndoors wagging, or shutters fluttering off to sleep in the moonlight,
with a single 50 degree spot to scare away the rats and mice.

Scootery dootery do.  
Scootery dootery dootery do.
Scootery dootery dottery do.
Scootery scootery splat.

Take it to Glasnevin,
and write IHS on the stone.  
That's what I'll be saying,
IHS with the voice in my mind.  
After Michaelmas is gone,
IHS, pleadingly, a lamb of God,
and a little after, exaltingly,
from a rooftop garden in the city centre,
where I can plant flowers.

Would that the earth,
had such a hold,
on body as on mind.  
That mind and mass
were not bonded such,
and in their union,
mutual torment.  
Were they apart,
which preference should I take?  
Which pleasure gives,
the other takes away,
yet when the first supplies not,
the other must do for both.  
What is pain,
less the apprehension of pain?  
What is there to diminish joy,
Without a notion of its end?
The baggage of the flesh,
counterweighs the baggage of the mind,
so would that this dilemma were real,
then should it console.

That which in day the brightest burns,
at night is seen to pale,
when sun and moon resolve in turns,
to light the merry earth below,
with spirit for the coming dawn.  
The faintest evanescent glow,
will light the path of one and all.  

The poet’s lamp is shepherd’s sun,
though barren it may seem,
bard and flocksman alike are won,
to reverence for the midnight star,
which though the tides each way may draw,
the greatest power it has by far,
is guidance in the darkest hour.

It was observed today
by the wily crew and me
that the lowest rent in Dublin
is for two metre plots
in a place called Glasnevin.

So Val, now I guess,
it's Val Donican for you.
You've given up the goat, and now
you're walking taller than all of us.  
You're guitar strings are silent,
yet my heart strings still ring for you,  
but no amount of cod liver oil
can bring you back.
So Val, rock on.

The biggest union flag
stands one day longer,
atop the important building,
*****, for its mistress.

By communal agreement -
they rattle on another day -
or else for *******, and fear,
of the alternative thing.  

Down in the earth,
trains are sometimes delayed.
a commuter curse and swear,
a spectre passes Waterloo.

I went to Dalkey Island in a 14 foot boat,
and there stood on a granite slab,
which formed the cap of a granite wall
built by the colonial administration.  
I saw the tracks where the canons used to be and pivot,
and the collapsed vaults of the officer's quarters,
and the fire they had there, in the fire place.  

I pronounced the words,

'Come at me, Napoleon,'

from the cradle of a big gun,
and provoked the dead man's spirit,
dispersed throughout the seas,
to later wet my socks
on the slip in Bullock Harbour.

Erebus

I walked along the shore,
from the coal harbour to seapoint,
and the lands beyond:
Blackrock, Dollymount, Asphodel.

There I weighed a sufferance,
against the others there,
and found it, for all that it is,
comparable, equivalent.

I weighed my unmortal parts upon the winds,
North to Northeast, falling slowly,  
held my frailties, and failings on the tide,
and presented a show of petty wrongdoings,

Some done, some undone,
some imagined into being.  
I put mercy to sea, and waited
for the shipping forecast,

To tell me what I thought could be,
carry that far barque to regions far,
bring profit from those lands,
and make solvent my life.

They replaced it with a thing.  
It's called the N6.

I hear you're off to Lanigan's Ball.
*Nah man, Mayo.

Harold Pinto Beans

my last one - it was very witty.

Things happened.

An Irish judge recently commented that cyclists should pay insurance to protect people driving over priced cars.  

I suggest that idiots in powerful positions in the judiciary should pay insurance for the possible damage that they may cause to this country.

Cycling is the last vestige of the romantic, facilitating free movement with minimal dealings with capitalists, exploitative business people, bus drivers, and the self interested.

There walking the length of a promenade,
from one end to the other and back again,
or labouring in vain in some little way,
in plot of earth or garret shot right through with light,
throwing dust sheets over all the old furniture,
in that old country house somewhere far off,
and finding the labour light for the season that’s in it.
Or dwelling in folly on another thought,
giving over to the human brain to the taxidermist,
master and subject to the other organs.
So found upon a hill in a lonely place,
above all the lands of the earth
surveying the wasted days of yore,
and waving goodbye to the sun.

I had a cousin, or so I'm told,
whose name, in truth I never knew,
He was some three or for score old,
all this, no more, have I been told.

On a Thursday in the sitting room,
he was wont to say that he,
was going down to Grainger's gate,
and t'was his pleasure that none should wait.

It was said by those who knew him,
that this was but a petty lie,
and to this place he remained a stranger,
to this public house called Graingers.

I think it strange that one so old,
should be not so self assured,
as to to cover up his petty tracks,
with this pastime, of drinking black.

And what was it, that he desired,
but walk beneath the city sky,
by Clontarf, Marino, and Fairview,
O cousin, whose name I never knew

I hung up my hangups on a coat rack.

It fell over,

squashed this, my earthly cat.

Phase the first

Will you direct me to Flannigan's ball?  
Flannigan's ball?  I cannot, what's that?
Wait now, or is it Lannigan's ball.
I know where that is, wait till I tell you.

Phase the second

Did you find it alright?
I did yeah.
And was it any good?
No, it was *****.

There is a tide,
And it is out.

Effing Bridge -
Effing City more like.

'The,' 'sod.'

There was a woman,
she is not in this poem.
But occupies this line and another,
nonetheless.

Be not overly dependant on government subsidies.

Splat.......hissschocktawwwwwham......fizzzzz

There was a young man from Brazil,
his name was Dickie.

There was dancing in the streets.  
Why was that, did they not have a place to go?
No, they were happy.  
Happy?  You'd want to be happy to dance in the street.
They heralded in with their tapping feat_
I don't want to hear it.

Today the Irish people witnessed a lapse of bigotry.  Officials are working round the clock to restore the status quo. The citizens of Ireland are warned to remain indoors.

Oh democracy, isn't it fun?  
It's alright, yeah.
Oh what fun!

The moon shines bright at night,
although I know it shines not.  
Cows in yonder valley chew senseless,
and are milked be twisting their horns.

Oh to live, less conscious thought!

Sometimes it might be useful,
to tread without purpose,
a dusty reminiscence,
and relieve idleness,
with the bathos of a burlesque.

To think of the plastered actors,
and actresses lit by torchlight,
or gas flame, or the new electric light,
which even though splendid,
cannot match the sun.  

And when followed down,
into the back rooms,
where the personalities hang,
all seem to slip away -
all the more for each time spent there.  

You might ask yourself,
is this the show they showed,
to the common punters,
to the boy with a ***** shirt,
and the auld one by the door.

Or is it just for me to see,
to rise and fall,
writhe and wane,
like the moon, my mistress,
who says after a long day:

Sit you by a fire,
and seek simple pleasures,
of simple rest and sleep,
so that we may, the next day,
on a past life think deep.

I'll drink a second cup of coffee.  
I'm just that bourgeois.

Go on, file a paper,
make an imaginary notice of imaginary things,
and build on this a physical entity.  
See how deaf the masses will go,
from hearing the Latin tongue:
parchment, and paper,
tomes of dust and sand.  
Make a rule because you can,
and cement again the fetters,
our fathers and mothers cleft in twain.  

Ireland is still an English land,
while English law remains.  
Tories breed like rabbits,
so don't ask me what's wrong,
why you're unsatisfied with your oppression,
why enough is never enough,
till the colonial fetish is propagated,
into every heart and mind there,
worked deep into the furrows of our holy ground.  

Will you never have done?
Are you not content with your own misery,
without inflicting it on others?
Is it not enough to be in chains,
but to love and ****** those chains?
  
Oh mighty sculptors of our race,
chip chip away and see what's left.

Some pomes stick to the wall like spaghetti,
And filch meaning from better poets.  
So take not the dower of my time,
And I'll make no obloquy against ye petty scriveners.

The hazy natural poetry flounts with airs and graces.
Let the humans out to air, and hold yesterday's darkness in sunny relief.  
Bring in capacity to strike down the dimness of the mass.
Do a little dance for the lame people, and bless the prodigal sun.

There was man,
Who was six foot;
There was another,
Who was not.

Seemingly

It is when an imagined happiness,
comes momently to the fore,
only to die in a vivid blustering of the weather,
then it is painful to be man.

Think ye on what might have been,
and dwell on the reminiscence of a passing prosperity,
which as a flaxen cloth is wrung,
passes to the obscurity of memory.
So sink to the shadows - ye might have been great.
Sigh and divulge the substance of your bodies,
rise, turn and stare.  The land groans,
from the labour of many, rises and falls,
to the beat of begetting and dying, while the begotten die,
and the dead beget some more,
to ache their heads and till their beds,
and carry on for a little while longer.  
I sat today and listened to the Angelus on the radio -
because what else was there to do?

Today was a day,
which was like other days in some regards,
but in others not.
Which is to say, that it was okay.
That was my day.

A wild cow defecates in the waters of the fledgling Liffey,
as it eeks oozes and seeps from the sheep **** of a Wicklow Vale,
running to the loo through the coronation plantation.

The descendant of the brown bull of Cuailnge moves on to the next waterway of Ireland.  What fun.

I want to go home.  
You are home.  
I am not, this is *****.  
Go home then.  
I can't, I'm already there.
Case and point.
Lock, stock and barrel.
That's right.

That the amount of no right turn signs in Dublin's inner city is criminal.

Not you - your parents.  
Ah yes.  In my new society, procreation will be illegal.  The earth will fall dormant.
Be nice.

That's not an allegory, it's ****** annoying.

I tried to get somewhere today.  
I got lost, ended up on Dolphin Road, went home.  
That felt bad.  The noise in my ears, the pressure in my head and an itch on my skin felt worse.
I am punished for the promiscuity of my ancestors.  
I could beat the dust into the other dust and role around there for a while.  
Might make me feel better.
Probably wouldn't.

or otherwise.

To tie up my guts and bowels.  
And others.