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.

That's Ouzo,
Not Oozo,
Not Oozu,
I've had a few.

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.

my last one - it was very witty.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Tiocfaidh an Samhradh leis an lae,
is rachaidh na laethannta leis an Samhradh.

Most people sweat euros and pounds,
I sweat coffee and gin.  
Here I am, in the ooze of my existence,
Laughing and smiling,
counting smiles on my fingertips,
quantifying my existence:
fizzle and pop, smile till you drop.

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

Effing Bridge -
Effing City more like.

If I were a trilobite...
well wouldn't that be great?

There was a man,
Who had a horse;
the horse died,
so did the man

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

Erebus

To tie up my guts and bowels.  
And others.

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.

Oh FIE!

Bertold Brechtfast

Robert Rope Burns

John B. Very Keane

Sean O'SuitCasey

Sir Thomas Grievous Malody

Percy Shelley Beach

Terry Hatchet

Iain Canal Banks

So....
Well
So....
Well then
So....
Indeed
So....
So indeed
I must point out...
Please Don't.  
I won't.

lalalalalalala

No, no, no.

la la la

No, wrong.  

The Lee Lang Night and Weep m'dear, the lee lang night and weep.

Better, try again.  

Lalalalalala.*

Superb.

There was a man,
who had a book;
The book was bad,
so was the man.

Oh ye men of Greece and Rome,
Too long have ye laboured,
Feel you not what is to come,
the grass by the wall of the ruin?  

Leave ye down your tools, ancient peoples,
know you not what is to come?  
See you not the pass of many years,
the grass through pavements old?

Great enterprise never sprung from a fertile land,
Go ye into the desert, and there build your temples,
Amongst the sands and beneath the sun,
where grass can never grow.  

Here the  lines and here the verse,
Here the vaults and chimneys,
Hark the turning of the days,
eek the tall and terrible days.  

Lo, the falling of a chimney,
Lo, the crack of stones to splinter,
Lo, the old oak tree stands yawning.
better to build from bushes and thorn.  

Have at your lawnmowers, ye council men,
And see what good it does you,
Think ye can halt the rise and fall,
of strong towers left to ruin?

Have at your anoraks, and have at your coats,
Clouds gather above and rankle the parapet,
Here stood a roof, here a joist, here a beam,
blackened in the soot and flames –  here falls the rain.  

Have at your sickles, and have at your hammers,
Go back to steppe and sod from whence ye came,
And never more disturb the sepulchral vaults,
where lie long dead men of Greece and Rome.

Mount Blank is beautiful, so I'm told.... and a poem follows

Shelley got away with it - I wouldn't.

Quoth Arthur.  And below him, saw he all manner of nasty things.

an inner essence flitter away to the wasteland,
and dwell in the hermitage of my thoughts and resolutions

Waist: 32'
Inside Leg: 34'
Outside Leg: ∞

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.

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

Seemingly

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.

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

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

Ah sure it wasn't long
last Saturday night,
before I was dancing out on the green.  

I stepped the dance
to general delight;
And I danced the skellemesago.

But not before long
I drew there a crowd
who thought me rather odd.

And sure says I
to two poli-ce-men,
It's only me dancing the wherligig jig.  
  
But with menacing look,
says one to me then,
You'll come right along with us.  

Yet being inclined,
to dance tru the night,
I skipped my heals and fled.

It was such a fleeing,
as think you might,
That I danced the Irish trot.

With fine trotting trot
as ever was got,
I danced away from those men.  

Yet intent they seemed,
On following me,
And dancing the rufty tufty

So up tailes all,
we three did go,
and the maid peept out the window.

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.

a hen
a doe
a tree
a catharsis
...
a Shay Healy
...
...
a knee
Ah Chew!

I hung up my hangups on a coat rack.

It fell over,

squashed this, my earthly cat.

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

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.

Harold Pinto Beans

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.

Said the Actress to the Bishop, something very rude.

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

There was a man,
He went to market;
the market was shut;
he went home.

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.

Look Ye upon all that I have done,
and scorn me for for the resolutions I make.  
Laugh in the mornings when I rise from bed,
scorn me then and dwell on my predicament:
I shall waste another hour or two,
and in time solemnity takes hold,
as sea over land: hard rocks to pebbles,
pebbles to dust.  How feeble now the dust!
Look ye at the toiling men and women,  
at the grand facade of Custom House Quay;
This building they floated on a swamp.  
Turn ye and look once again at me,
Look ye upon all that I have done,
look at dust and ash of dust and earth.

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

WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.
WHO ARE YOU?
......
WHO ARE YOU?
I am he.