Archive for December, 2012

I Love The Internet
December 29, 2012






I love the internet.

Opium to DeQuincy

Sin to Milton

Congo to Conrad

Aran to Synge


I love the internet


Castles to Shakespeare

Deceit to LeCarre

Dublin to Joyce

Marketplace to Chaucer


Did we say

‘Daffodils to Wordsworth?’

We couldn’t forget that.

Or mounted jihad to Tennyson

Or the weird wild wonder

of the whole god damn show

to Dylan


I love the internet


Wild, lewd, bawdy, bullying, smelling of cats.

Cranks, crank, meth, conspiracy, snipers, knoll.

Fascists made cartoon on ripe digital soil.

Erudite waltzing with trite.

In eternal ballroom

Dedicated skiers on seas of trivial loon.

Self help soma screaming thinnin tv hair repair.

And always the smiles of the filippino brides

And promises of untold nigerian riches.

Flashing wheel spinning ace poker squared

You Have Been Chosen



Somewhere down there in the fly fishing section

the first faint whispers

(If ears are right)

of hushed talk


bold revolution.


I love the internet

The sheer









Boisterous Brughel medieval market.

Futuristic Middle Ages



Friar Tuck.

And offset, whispers






I love the internet.

Cos it’s ours.


Kev Bar – 29/12/2012

The Prodigal Son
December 29, 2012

Estranged for most of the year,
Through actions of his own doing
Rolls up to the door
But there is no trouble brewing
Forgotten in what seemed an age
And arrived after about a year
The prodigal son walks through the door
And allays every single fear
Greeted with open arms
and kisses to the cheek
Christmas feels like it did years ago
Light at the end of the tunnel, tis not bleak
We take out a chair for him
The cry goes out “Make room for one more at the table”
He tells us about move abroad
And how his marriage was not stable
Family torn up
And in need of a break
We’ll always have room for him
We are all allowed to make the odd mistake
It doesnt matter what has been said
Or for that matter, what has been done,
For we now have back a member of the family
No longer a prodigal son

Öèôðîâàÿ ðåïðîäóêöèÿ íàõîäèòñÿ â èíòåðíåò-ìóçåå

Fluffybiscuits – 29/12/2012

Winter Poem
December 28, 2012

In the dark, the wind inhabits the trees

They’re swathed with wind like a misty cloth.

Not a single leaf or fruit remains.

The wind strips to the last shred each twig and branch

Once dressed with fragile lichens, jade and white.

Each naked twig and branch is stretched for light long gone

Till the turning of the year brings light again.


Enheduanna – 28/12/2012

Christmas In Captivity
December 26, 2012

There was a certain collective gloom hung over Christmas in Gaol, as I recall.  On every face you could sense that mood. Especially amongst the first timers.

Come the hour  (midnight xmas eve) you could hear a pin drop, sometimes a tear drop amongst the uncanny silence in the dark.

Individual men were having their ”Dickens of a Christmas” confronting Ghosts of Christmas’s past, Christmas present and Christmas’s yet to come. As with ”Scrooge” in” A Christmas Carol”

Psychologically, Christmas caused them to recall happier moments/or not, in different environments and so ”the seasonal spirit” had their minds elsewhere.

I’m not the greatest of singers, but Prison bars and yards and concrete blocks produces a hauntingly toned vibration that suits my voice and can be heard through every cell and beyond the block.

In eerie silence I began to say the words in rolling rhyme  (slow song)  ”Silent night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright, Round yon Virgin, Mother and child”

After ”Holy Infant” and so on, I caught the sound of the first tears with the words ”Sleep in Heavenly Peace”

For days previously the screws had placed a wee Christmas Tree near to the prisoners phone booth. A wee mind game they enjoy.

As I went to the phone I was singing to the tune of ”Walking in a Winter Wonderland” but changed the words to ”Later on, If you wanta, You can dress like Madonna, ”Walking round in Women’s Underwear!”  (Reverse Psychology)

Being a mixed Religion remand wing I’m surprised I got beyond ”Round yon Virgin” without an uproar from opposing religious based groupings.

Not a word.
Silent remained the Night and the Peace was Heavenly.

snow prison

Trow – 26/12/2012

The Season of Love and Hate
December 25, 2012

A procession of visitors descending without warning.

Once a year hellos and hugs the veneer that covers the scars.

Opening frostiness thawing as conversation begins to flow.

Smiling through gritted teeth at inane chatter and enjoying the gossip.

Then news of an unexpected death at home that leaves us deflated.

Thinking why couldn’t it have been one of you and not really meaning it.

Another cup of tea and biscuits, a drop of whiskey, it must be half-time by now.

Old ground gone over for the thousandth time, the career news and boasting.

Okay that’s enough friendliness for now and we’re all sick of each other again.

Finally the end comes as they must be on their way while it’s still bright.

Wistfully waving goodbye knowing that for some this meeting might be their last.




Shaadi – 25/12/2012

Christmas Morning, 5am
December 24, 2012

The novelty of untimely bottles
Had passed.
Christmas would mean nothing to you
As we rocked down the stairs,
Cradled in farm animals,
Too early for the radio.

It’s bright for late December;
The kettle coughing to find rhythm.
I tugged a curled curtain cuff,
A sleeve of fleece clustered on the D-rail,
Bonnets perched on post-caps.

We stepped into the dull sound-box
Of snow,
Shallow where the pipes ran.
The ritual of whimpering had stopped
As you strained to pick a single flake,
Big but slow enough to avoid,
I thought.

Your eyes were blue at last
Sparkling twitches
In a silence absolute
And deafening.
A crystal glittering, finds a path
To your cheek
And you smile at me in confusion.

Our first real moment together
But I tell you,
‘She’ll hit the roof if she catches us
Out here.’
So I cóck the door handle gentle behind,
Closing Christmas to the bigger children.
The kettle has boiled.


Image: 5intheface

5intheface – 24/12/2012

White Snow
December 23, 2012




the bright blue    sky

One  dressed

                    as  an Officer

One  as a Chef

The others


Handsome   Officer

the colour of blue sky

Soft Spring

long   past  Christmas

You are




shiny   sun

a        shiny


The Chef  plucks

the goose

Ah snow fall!  fall

Fall  . . .   and  I




In  my  



Image by Naldz



Arthur Rimbaud    

Translation:  Enheduanna   – 23/12/2012

Image: Snow /  Naldz

Christmas in Thomas Street
December 22, 2012

As the shades of evening drop on Thomas Street

and the multi-coloured light draws down

and the stall-holders make their offers

-the best value on the south side of town

And as the shoppers gather eagerly

to view and test their wares

and penitents mingle fervently

to recite their festive prayers

As the little children point and shout with glee

and dream of Christmas presents bright

and mums and dads search through their wallets

to deliver the gifts that are just right.

And while people rush from far and near

and most can hardly wait

St. Nicholas, Holy, Ever True

bestows His Blessing Great

on all the folks in the Liberties

close by this City’s Gate.



Image: Angelo Failla via Veezzle

Riposte – 22/12/2012

An Ode To BBC’s ‘Time Team’
December 20, 2012

The famous archaeologist

boasts of his recent find,

Some bones in an old farmyard rest

beneath an ancient pine.

He brushes them off carefully;

it takes him many days,

When finally raised above the dirt,

he takes them far away

To study them more closely,

look at each bone’s width and breadth,

And analyse more carefully

events surrounding death.


He lays them out so thoughtfully,

the remnants of this life.

And then a sculptor will arrive

with tools, a putty knife,

He takes the skull into his room

and makes a plastic face,

To show us how this man had looked

when on this earth he graced.


I often wonder if in time,

a hundred years or so,

Some future archaeologist

to your churchyard will go,

And there may randomly unearth

the bones you left behind,

And taking them so far away

in order he may find

How very strong and tall you were

partaking in your life,

The sculptor then will make your face

and use his putty knife.


And so you stare, a plastic head

with dull and glassy eyes,

While all the details of your days

these men will analyse.

They’ll see you were a farmer

gracing time upon these fields,

And find a life of hard work spent,

as may their studies yield.


They’ll note your breadth of shoulder,

and the length your shadow cast,

Those knocks and pings of lifetime

that upon your bones do last.

But the warming of your laughter

now these scientists will miss,

The gentle care within your hands,

the softness of your kiss.

Your eyes so blue in anger,

and the texture of your hair,

The soothing nature of your voice,

the ardour of your stare.


Oh, never will their studies say

how special you could be

In all the days when times were blessed

and you were still with me.

The scientists are now content

with reasons why you died,

But observations didn’t state

how grievously I cried.


Bex – 20/12/2012

Waiting for Mahon
December 19, 2012

Patrick Bartholomew Ahern.

You are to be offered on the high altar of government spin

They hope Mahon will drown the austerity din

While cribbers and moaners at last have their day.

Cabinet moves to bury top level pay


Bury hospital closures, cuts to special needs

Bury waste, worker’s rights and the ‘reform’ of Meath

Bury the relish in stripping of assets

Bury more lay-offs and three new stealth taxes.


Bury their lies and uncomfortable truths

Buried like a stake. In your cold, black heart


Composed January 2012


Dr.FIVE – 19/12/2012

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