Category Archives: Writing

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Feck the Union Jack

Feck the Union Jack

PARENTAL ADVISORY: EARTHY CONTENT AHEAD

Fuck the Union Jack

I’m not British in the same way that you are not identified by the country that borders you. Ah, but I’m actually in an enclave of the world called the British Isles. To the latter I do agree but that’s because it, the Isles nomenclature, has existed longer than British, the definition as being of the Empire and all things essentially English, has.

I get it that people need to prove their worth and where dick measuring or the female equivalent is concerned, I don’t give a fuck!

However, if it gets to being stroppy mid pint in a dark dingy place, let’s at least get some facts straight.

I’m Irish, never to be confused with English (obviously!), British (same again), anglo-saxon (same again plus fuck you you pretentious ignorant cunt for assuming that if you grandiose-ise it I’ll be humbled by you pseudo-academic prowess).

In fact, if you can stick the Queen next to it, I’m not there!

Oh, but I can hear you say. Over-reacting, cute, somehow misonformed… about that which I probably know better than you ( being that if I ever contradicted your knowledge of your world you’d lynch me), and yet I’m supposed to tolerate your opinion. And I do. Cos I’m misguided, I believe that by ignoring centuries of shame, I’m becoming stronger. I really think that I can improve, progress, evolve. And that’s okay…until I have to listen to the same ole bullshit. The BS that devolves me, degrades me, somehow supplants me. The BS that diminishes me. The BS that makes being a victim a dehumanising  aspect of being. The BS that leads me here. And yet, I am stronger than the flippant expulsions of an inebriated soul. Until I’m not.

Amen

 

© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

This is not that poem

This is not that poem

You can pronoun the shit out of the situation but you can still be wrong,

and you’ll be made to understand that you have been so wrong.

You can apologise and yet be classed as ignorant, no room for manoeuvre.

You can be anything but right. You’re white, therefore you’re wrong.

You can protest but that’s violence: there’s a lawsuit on the way.

You have hip friends, young and interesting,

They depart with each word you say.

You studied feminism yet you’re sexist

Cos you dare challenge the new convention.

Even though the old one needed toppling

You expressed doubt that it needed upgrading.

Rather, you screamed, it needed changing

A new direction, post-instituition.

But it got lost in all and sundry:

the dreaded irony?

You die the one that wanted dialogue.

 

© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

Freyed

Freyed

In a vision of the moment cast aside,

and yet – with each intake of breath –

There would seem to be a harmony,

what’s more – a dreaded repetition.

 

Why does the cycle present its terror

Except in the knowledge of what was before.

Therefore, no man feels stable, secure,

Nor draws comfort from that

which has become oh so predictable:

And in the tortured will to survive

Man surrenders life to existence.

 

© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

Pessimism

Pessimism

Another step, a neighbourhood
And yet the worries call.
The darkened corners of my doubts
Put service to my fall.
The imagination builds on high
the towers to collapse.
And in the end ruination
– but what will be the cost?

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

This Side

This Side

The scaffolding still stands across the way
And under it other parties now do pass
In the shadow of that tunnel hidden memories
Some borne of repetition some of joy.
Each step a step closer to one’s abode
But- now- the turning wheel dictates the road
Will it be in hindsight our adventure or
In leaving it the spelling of our certain Doom.
The passing faces the road much trodden
The life the thoughts the everything
And in so passing us we too were passing
And are still from this side of the road.

© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

The writer tried what the boy didn’t have to

As the writer tries a composition
The young child delves to exploration.
The older hand deemed wiser falters
While the boy’s reality at a whim can alter.
The writer concocts mind-felt emotions
The boy just is in his devotions.
Together they occupy this very moment
But which one’s truly in the present?

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

Moving Back Again

Moving Back Again

And once again I sit
Another last time to contemplate,
The kitchen’s almost bare
The living room hollow echoes
As the kids watch something to distraction.
A cool draught saunters in for a second
Hand in hand with the sounds of the city
And then back to the inside
The plughole gurgling at a deeper depth
Threatening the surface
The tap hasn’t dripped for some minutes
Somewhere an awful song sung in Hungarian
If the original is any better I cannot tell
I’m just not in the mood.
Plastic crackles, the reality where a fireplace would feature
But let’s return from twee
My geansaí grey but I’m not a Yeatsian fisherman.
I sit here a moment in a kitchen that will fade
Realising and those moments in blend almost already gone.

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

Egri ídős emberek

A little spot away across the bridge
from where the night before
the party came on loud.
Set merged within the outside table seats,
and a couple to the right – a ripe old age.
When finally they arise and walk away
their every limp and sway a matted mated edge
A testament to a bond grown aged yet strong
as they fade with time’s embrace into my past.

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

Love Once More

Love Once More

That far flung dalliance with Destiny
Forever fettered by my idea of beauty
Instead searching as I do the memories
Trawling all the bars, as Stu said,
All the vacant corners of the heart
Where ridicule and sentiment abide
Torn close because the distance threatens
To ensue a truth as well as any falsehood too
The latter factored in beyond my conscious mind
The former as much as always a surprise.
“And yet your talk of women only…”
Tis true
And this because the void therein was once defined
Inside the mind
Inside the soul
Of youth and sorrow
Inside the pain that brought no pity, and so
I rose a desecrated entity by my own hand
And with the lip and glisten
Kiss and touch
And doubt and anger
Only fear
And with the fear I straddled beauty on a dockside
And somewhere in a moment I found Life where breath no longer reigned
I found shape in a distortion of the romance in which I had failed…
And it is now the very essence of my being.

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

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