Don't Go There

Tonight my book launches in the Unitarian Church alongside fellow poets and friends John Murphy, Sarah Clancy and Peadar O Donaghue.

Details on the Launch HERE

And if you can't make the launch, you can order a copy HERE.

A Night-time Crackle, a Short Story.

A Night-time Crackle

By Colm Keegan

Me and Martin bomb it outta me estate, not carin’ that it’s all hours of the mornin’. Sharon shrinks in the rearview mirror of the new flash motor while I curse into me teeth, tryin’ to fight off the lure of her tears. Martin whoops as he cranks the gearstick and wheelspins off me road, back at me house Sharon closes the front door shakin’ and sobbin’ with one hand on her belly and then Martin nods at the glove box and when I open it I see a bag of coke.

Martin winks at me, Get that Charles into yeh, he says, A little welcome home to kick the night off. and I’m holdin’ the coke and not wantin’ to take it and he’s askin’, What do you think of the new jammer?, and I couldn’t give a fuck ’cause me mind’s full of other things so I look around at the ash-coloured interior of his new Beamer, and it’s luxury this and chrome and walnut that. So I say, Class, just to shut him up about it and then, You took your time, as I point at the witchin’ hour on me watch. And he says, sorry I had to get rid of some skirt. And I know he’s just after finishin’ with some desperate coke crazed yoke when I see a Johnny-wrapper and an emptied coke wrap sittin’ on the just-broken-in back seat .

We’re speedin’ outta of me estate and mountin’ the footpath near some skangers by the main road ’cause Martin’s a mad driver, always messin’. And they spit curses after us, their mobile phones wavin’ like little lanterns in the dark. And as we drive towards the city Martin asks the question I hoped he wouldn’t.

He asks me, How was London? and me stomach does a somersault of grief and I say, Grand, and that’s all because a memory stops me, a picture flickerin’ in me head of me and Sharon outside a clinic, standin’ in the litter on a run-down London street, her fingers on the nape of me neck, her hand in mine and me lettin’ her go.

Me heart wants to break but Martins all on about the night-life and how, Fuckin’ place is fast though innit? And I shut-up his waffle with, It was quiet just me and herself and I think of how quiet it actually got after we did what we did.

He answers, Sure that’s Sharon for you. You would’ve had more craic with me, but I have to let it go ’cause I have no energy for any more arguments. And he sorta makes up for it by sayin’, It’s good to have you back.

I suppose it is good for him, ’cause I’m his only friend in the world and then he gets a text and I say, Who’s that and he says, No-one, which means that it’s someone, or something he doesn’t want me to know and then he says, Guess wha’? and I say, What?

And he says, Jako’s back out.

And I say, Ah fucks sake you’re fuckin’ messin’ and pinch the bridge of me nose and close me eyes.

When did he get out? is obviously me next question. Last Friday, he says, the same day you flew off, and I wish I could really fly off again ’cause me life is so in the shitter.

Sure he had ages left didn’t he? I say and Martin says yeah, Musta been good behaviour, either that or good rimmin’ and then the two of us snicker as we drive towards the pubs.

All the pubs have emptied, leavin’ the roads full of drunk dopes, all queuein’ for taxis, eatin’ curries, arguin’ and kissin’. And there’s some slappers who know Martin, good lookin’ but way too gamey, all wavin’ and blowin’ kisses beggin’ to be picked up, even caressin’ his car, sparklin’ eyelashes flutterin’ at me when he refuses. And then on our way out of the drunken gaggle the last thing we see is a droopy girl, arse gettin’ groped as she pukes on a charity-shop shutter.

All this sleaze is kinda funny but I’m far from laughin’. I’m thinkin’ about that bollix Jako and the night he came for us. When he said, You two chancers have pissed on my patch for the last time. We heard his speedin’ Lexus and bolted for the dew-drenched fields, three bullets zinged past us, one almost kissin’ me right ear. With the car tearin’ off and the mist around our legs I thought about stoppin’ what we were doin’, Martin just fell back on the grass and looked up at the stars, coked up and gigglin’ like fuck

Then the news buzzed around that Jako was nicked, goin’ down on ancient warrants. And after that his crew started appearin’ in the papers, smilin’ and drinkin’ in one set of photos, under blankets with blown off heads in the next. All takin’ care of each other and leavin’ me and Martin to mind our own business, which was great, because business was boomin’.

Martin looks at me as if he’s wide to what I’m thinkin’ and says, Jako’s gonna come for us again, we’ll never get off with what we did and he reaches under his car seat and hands me a pistol.

At first I amn’t shocked, instead I sorta fall in love with it. The way the handle is like a magnet for me curious probin’ fingers. The way it weighs the same as a bag of sugar but feels so packed with power, singing of the factories that battered it all together.

I say, Class again, meanin’ it this time. And Martin points at the logo and I look and it’s a Glock, and Martin pulls a homeboy pose and says, Hip-hops favourite handgun.

And then I realise that I’m shittin’, ’cause we always said no shooters.

Then Martin’s phone goes again with another message and he reads it and waves the bag of coke in me face while snufflin’ and blinkin’, and I think of the first time I met him, down an alley when I was five and he was six, he showed me how to do bubble writin’, the two of us like artists on the concrete pavin’ slabs, our hands manky from black markers.

Then he shouts, Neeeeouwn!, at a car gone beltin’ past us, rattles the bag again and smiles his big cokey smile. And I put the gun down and look at the bag and see a long dark night ahead, sayin’ Nah ’cause of Sharon and he says, C’mon you fuckin’ windbag and some greedy small and stupid part of me brain says, Alright so, give it here.

And I stick me house key into the bag and take a neat white pile and sniff it. And me stupid self takes over and me back stiffens and me balls go tight or maybe it’s the other way around. And Martin takes another snort while the bags still in me hand, like some hungry tamed animal only I know so much better and he’s mad jittery and shakin’, shoutin’, That’s it buddy!!!! Now we’re talkin’ Yup yup!

And he drives up the hill towards the big motorway roundabout, where to our left the whole city lies scattered in orange and yellow twinkles, all the black bits in between alive with night-time crackle.

And Martin says, Lets go on the motorway, and I’ve a feelin’ that it has to be done and I say, Now you’re talkin’. Lets see what this yoke can do, and a rush goes through me when he says, Sure here bud, you drive. And we swap seats and I look in the mirror where Sharon’s reflection was and now it’s just me eyes, black and gigantic marbles, and we do a bit more powder on the slip road hurtlin’ south.

And I find a good track on the radio that we hum to while tappin’ our fingers and the coke feels good as I gnaw at me own jaws. London? What London I’m thinkin’ easin’ outta the slip road, feelin’ every passin’ thing, every lamppost, sign and phone-mast. As if they’re clickety-clackin’ along and ticklin’ the spokes of me soul.

And Martin shouts, There you are ya cunt! at a sleek navy car overtakin’ us and I turn and say, It’s him! Lookit! and Martin says, Who? And I say say, Jako!, not believing that this is possible and Martin gives a laugh that says he knew all along, that this isn’t us buzzing in his beamer this is a fucking interception. And there’s Jako in his Lexus lookin’ older than the last time and also lookin’ like a faggot with his sunglasses holdin’ back his long and greyin’ hair.

And the brakes lights of a car in front smack into me field of sight. And right then when we’re swervin’ a skid Martin twists and grabs the gun.

Before I get to stop him he points and shoots out his window, missin’ but hittin’ the back door of Jakos motor twice. And the shots electrify the traffic, cars weave and horns blare while the Lexus screeches ahead.

I scream me head off at Martin, What the fuck are you doin’ you mentaller! ‘cause I can’t believe what he’s doin’. but he just says, Get the fucker.

And I say, What?

And he says, Go!

And me face is just a blank and he gives me his one good reason

Sayin’, If we do it now nobody will know it was us. And he saw us before I shot at him and if he gets away we’re dead.

And when Martin sees me hesitatin’ he shouts, Go you spoon. Go. GO! And Jako has gotten miles ahead so I put the pedal to the metal, the speedometer rises to sixty, then seventy five, then eighty. And Martin dips his nose in the bag of coke again, and he comes up for , and comes up for air and sticks the gun out the window. And I fuckin’…. And I start to feel me last line wear off.

The coke deserts me skull. This is madness, this isn’t normal.

Will you get that thing in yeh thick! I shout, but Martin doesn‘t hear me. He is listenin’ to the white now, roarin’ and hangin’ out the window, his tracksuit top billowin’, screamin’, You’re goin’ down old man, goin’ down!! Lights out. Lights out for you!!! And all he needs to complete the picture is some foamin’ at the mouth.

Jako was fast but Martin’s Beamer catches up easy. A bridge wooshes over us. Martin sits back in his seat.

We get alongside the Lexus again. Martin aims the pistol. Jako winds up his window. I look in his backseat, and what’s in his backseat makes me grab for the gun. And Martin resists, so I grab at him again and the gun goes off and shoots through the car floor. And I pull at him again and he turns to me and I swear to god its like his eyes have gone out they’re just holes, so black I don’t recognize him now and then he swings the gun and smashes it into me mouth. And me teeth break and me blood splatters, and the coke falls and spills across the car.

And I should tell Martin what I saw but I just punch him in the face instead, one dig mashin’ his nose and the other kinda missin’. And the car sways across lanes and into the hard shoulder. And when I finally straighten up Martin has the gun pointin’ at me temple.

And he says, Drive you fucking muppet. And of course I do what he says, followin’ Jako up the exit and off the motorway.

And when we speed around another roundabout Jako breaks the lights, turnin’ into the suburbs with the shrillest of skids. And Martin closes one eye and points the gun out the window and I scream, Don’t shoot! Don’t fuckin’ shoot! And I’m so glad I’ve finally said it ’cause of the crazy thing that I saw. In the back of Jakos car was a little big-eyed baby, sittin’ in his car- seat, chewin’ on a teethin’ ring, his tiny hand in the golden tufts on his just-woken-up head.

Martin shouts, Shurrup! and I say, I’m serious. Let’s just ram him off the road.

And Martin laughs, With me new car?! Not a chance, points and fires the gun again.

And a bullet opens a hole in Jako’s back bumper. And a plea shoots from my mouth.

Will you give it up yeh fuckin’ eejit theres a kid in the car!

And? he says, not looking surprised or concerned, his face just staying the same.

What do you mean and!!? A kid I said! A fuckin’ baby.

And he fires.

And Jako’s window explodes as his head jerks and flops forward while the car veers left, leaves the road, carves mucky curves in the grass before stoppin’ still.

And Martin gets out, grabbin’ the half emptied bag of coke and forgettin’ the gun. I pick it up before runnin’ after him, thinkin’ of the first time I kissed Sharon, we had to play the xylophone together for the Christmas show in school, we kissed backstage amongst the props, mobiles made with ice-pop sticks and paper snowflakes floatin’ by our heads.

And Jako’s car has cut out. I hear the tickin’ of its dyin’ engine while nearby some small giggly river is tricklin’, birds are wakin’, pink is creepin’ into the sky and the baby is cryin’.

And Martin opens the driver’s door, starts skippin’ around the body, shoutin’ at Jako’s useless drainin’ head, One down. Ha! One down., laughin’ before restin’ on his hunkers, gulpin’ rapid with eyes like a frog. And I hate what he’s doin’, the way he’s usin’ numbers, like the marks on the side of them planes that look like sharks, and I think of factories again, and rows and rows of bullets, and puddles of red from dead men.

And he looks in the backseat and sees the baby starin’ out, then cocks his ear towards the bushes, hears the river lickin’ the stones, takes another snort of the coke while thinkin’ before sayin’, Gimme that little ….

And the sentence never finishes, because I shoot a bullet into his face that blows a hole in his cheekbone before he falls over into a heap that becomes his corpse after I shoot him again.

And the shots make the little baby cry louder.

And I jump into the back of the car and he looks at me.

And he looks at me like I’m supposed to be there

And I take his teethin’ ring off the seat and hand it back to him.

And he does this cute little shiver and stretch that I never saw anybody do before.

First Fortnight, Don't Go There, Three Men, interpersed with a walk in the park.

Walking the dog along the edge of a pitch dark park tonight with the wind in my face is the closest thing I've felt to being alive in a long time. Getting old is fucking annoying isn't it? Every action becomes one you've done before. It can get a little frightening. But at least the city was there, on the horizon - laughing orange, shining newness, and movement.

Why am I telling you this? Because I'm interspersing my diary like ramblings with news, self promotion and weak segues that's why.

I'm doing a gig tomorrow night in the Workman's Club. I'm really looking forward to it because it's for First Fortnight which aims to challenge Mental Health issues through Creative Arts. A commendable endeavour peeps - and one close to my heart. Clink on this linkypoos - buy a ticket or two and come along...

The horizon of city lights get boring after a while (what doesn't) I found my focus slipping into the darkness in between, where the people are. But you have to be careful staring in to the Dubh linn - the black pool - be careful getting into it because it's getting into you...

Other shit worth sharing/recording is that my first poetry collection will be published in 2012 with Salmon. It'll be called Don't Go There, will have a psycho-geographical feel and hopefully a nice cover. It's great to feel like I've arrived at a certain point with poetry - especially accompanied by fellow, and waay better, Dublin Poet John Murphy who will be launching his book 'The Book of Water' with Salmon at the same time. John is one of my favourite poets and a hero of mine for many reasons not worth mentioning here because...

Segue!

The clouds looked mad - bulbous and glorious, lit up white and bright by the city's lights. And the swirl of them. It's hard to get your head around sometimes. So much beauty and so little point. And the moon up there too. Unreachable. Beaming down like a joke. A neh neh neh neh neh from the cosmos. Well fuck you moon. I'm onto you - metaphorically...

Also, tomorrow I'll be meeting with the other two blokes from Three Men Talking About Things They Kinda Know About to discuss the once off January showcase of our play. We're hoping to tour it in Spring/early Summer, not just the play, but a short slam session and/or Q and A too, so the audience gets more out of the experience. Exciting times. Here's hopng we get a nice run of shows.

Did I say run? Speaking of which, I like to run with the dog. Having a dog is fucking weird. It does things to you. You find yourself saying things like 'ah lookitim - he's happy. Ah let him at it, he's enjoying himself' when really you're talking about yourself. It's like you create this familiar to let yourself off the leash but it doesn't really work.

Anyway I didn't get to run. I kept falling out of my half eaten shoe (thanks dog).

My dog is called Anto by the way - it's supposed to be ironic but it doesn't really work. The name not the dog. The dog is not ironic. An ironic dog would be a cat.

Right - back to the poeming.

Shamone

The Poetry Bus 2 interview

How do Folkies

Tis mad busy here but I had to drop everything to post this interview with Peadar O Donaghue - the wonderfully passionate creator of the self funded and much loved Poetry Bus. Which will be launching it's second issue in the Glor Sessions on September 12th. Check it out here.

http://thepoetrybus.blogspot.com/

And now to the nitty spitty.

Peadar, please explain what the poetry bus is and how it came about.

The Poetry Bus is the next best poetry magazine in the world. The
first best is The SHOp. But I want the Poetry Bus to be the greatest
poetry magazine in the world which is a totally different kettle of
oysters altogether. The mag evolved form a weekly poetry task I set
on my now defunct blog totalfeckineejit. I , like most people, wasn't
too keen on Monday. So I thought we could brighten it up by getting
people to write and post a poem on that day. It worked, it kind of
took off, and some of the poems were so good I thought they deserved
to be 'properly' published. So the Poetry Bus Magazine was born.

Peadar nobody likes poetry, so why bother bring out a mag, and at
your own expense?

Because I'm a deluded alcoholic moron.

How did the last edition do?

Fucking great.

I took a bunch of poetry buses to Nighthawks to sell, unfortunately
I only sold one (to Dave Lordan). The rest were left there for
collection the next day but went missing. Where would you say they
went?

I have forensic proof that aliens took them to see how earth
people express themselves. Also if you only sold one what better
person to sell it to than Mr Lordan. And what a tight- fisted bunch
the rest were, did they get free tickets to Nighthawks?

I've heard you feed your pet dog whiskey, which is disgraceful,
because Dog's like Gin. What do you use as a mixer?

All joking aside, I would never waste whiskey on a dog. Pedigree
chum makes a good mixer though.

The Arts council refused to give you any money for this project -
did they give you a valid reason?

I have reasons why I didn't bother applying to The Arts Council
this time. But I did apply to the local (Wicklow) Arts office and was
rejected. I'll ask them tomorrow why that was. I'd be almost curious
to know meself!


What are the criteria for getting into/onto the poetry bus?

Write a poem that I like, or draw an illustration that I like, or
send me € 50 in a brown envelope.


Illustrations feature strongly in the Poetry Bus mag. This
increases cost and makes your job harder, why did you think the mag
needed artwork?

I just think they really work well together.And I love art and
illustation, a painting is just a visual poem, a poem perhaps is a
verbal painting.

And I believe that the creative process for both is the same. That
the poet or the artist have a mood, an ache, an itch, a problem, a
question, a dilemma, an anger, a joy, a sensation, an urge that culminates
in a poem or a picture.

The featured artist in PB2 is Adam Neate and he said of painting ' You
start with a number of questions. You battle, you fight, you
persevere. The painting is finished when the questions have been
answered.'

And Dylan Thomas described writing a poem as a process that began with
an image based on the emotions which then bred conflicting images
within an intellectual framework until the contradictions were
resolved in ' that momentary peace which is a poem'

Both these statements struck me as being profoundly true.

Who would you hate to have on the Poetry Bus?

Bertie Ahern, Margaret Thatcher, Stephen Fry, Roger McGough, Ian
Holloway, Frankie Boyle, Freddie Kruger, The Beatles, anybody who
isn't Japanese that writes Haiku or supports Liverpool FC, and above
all, Me.

What's it like being from the country. I heard it's dark for six
months of the year and everything runs on turf.

Sheer hell Colm. It is dark, not only from dawn till dusk, but from
birth till death, we culchie troglodytes are forced into not only
burning turf, but worshiping it and occasionally eating it. We have to
marry our sisters and sacrifice our first born to the Gods of Lotto.
If it wasn't for basking in the reflections of ye bright shiny
Jackeens we wouldn't survive at all.

Are there reviews in this edition of the mag? If yes for by whom? If
not - Do you plan to work some in.

No. But It's something I want to get into. There will be at least
one or two reviews in PB3 (The Christmas Special) and several book
recommendations. ALL DEPENDENT ON US GETTING SUPPORT AT FUNDIT.IE for
PB 2!!

You used to blog as Totalfeckineejit (from whence the Poetry bus was
born) but have stopped. Why? And what was going on with those bleedin' masks you used to wear?

TFE was a figment of my imagination but I don't have a very good
imagination but fortunately it was good enough to imagine that I had a
good imagination capable of imagining TFE. But then I sobered up.

The masks are purely because I is irresistible to women and I don't
want to be tormenting them with my beauty.

Given the lack of funding you've decided to set up a fund-it
campaign. Did it work for you?

A) Fundit.ie is brilliant, I can't recommend it highly enough, it is
the way ahead, it's the alternative for the alternative. We reached our target easily in the end. Which is fantastic
in these tough times.

You're known throughout internetland as a raging alcoholic who posts
mental facebook status updates at three in the morning or from the
depths of your delirium tremens. How does your wife feel about this?

I've just asked her and she says she doesn't mind so long as I
don't wake her when I'm going to bed.

Who'd win in a fight between Howard Stern or Pat Kenny.

I met Pat Kenny once outside St Teresas in Clarendon Street and
despite all my preconceived ideas of him being a plank and stuff he
was really nice, but he had a strong handshake and he would definitely
batter that arsehole Stern.

And that's that. You can buy the poetry bus mag here.

Dave Lordan - Clonakilty Special Branch

Dave Lordan, one of my favourite poets, is just back from a Mini-tour of Newfoundland. I was very interested in how he got on and invited him to guest blog here about it.

And so Dave very kindly sent me a story about Clonakilty.

Well actually, he told me he was working on the aforementioned story and I said I'd like to post it instead. We might get around to the Canadian shenanigans later.

Dave also performed twice at the DLR poetry Now festival this weekend. I saw him at 'For This: Poems for our Ireland'. Someone jokingly called it 'lets all wring our hands for Ireland' but it was quite good to be fair, Dermot Bolger, Senator Norris, Leanne O Sullivan, Miriam O Callaghan, Kavanagh Award judge Brian Lynch, punk poet ledgebag Jinx Lennon amongst others reflecting on our current circumstances.

And Seamus Heaney was in the audience. I didn't know until afterwards. There I was acting all too cool for school and then yer man Famous Shaymus comes out the door and I was actually a bit star struck. Fame man, it's like a pheromone.

You don't get to be in presence of such a genius everyday so, never being one to miss an opportunity, I duly crossed the room and head-butted him.

Course I did.

Anyways. Here's Dave's story.

Clonakilty Special Branch

Towards the end of February I was scavenging pine cones with my brother from the row of dark, sheltering pine trees that separate the old GAA pitch from Waldashaff Park.

Waldaschaff Park is beside the Model Village on a patch of leftover land in front of the water treatment plant, and on the crest of the hill that marks the start of the Inchadoney Road. You can see, and smell, Inchadoney Bay from there. The smell is not bad now, more salt than shit, due to the treatment plant.

Waldaschaff is the name of a village in Bavaria twinned with Clonakilty since 1989. The town council built the little park to mark the twinning. You might wonder why the town’s wise burghers chose to build the twinning park right beside the sewage facility, a most unlikely place to picnic and take the air. I think it is because they believed that the universal capacity to produce endless amounts of shit is what unites us across national borders. They are right. The unceasing nature of shit is something we all have to deal with.

These days, evidently, no-one looks after Waldaschaff Park. Its stone paths have overgrown, its gates are chainlocked, its melancholy benches are flaking and cracking with years of drizzle and woodrot. To pause and peruse and especially to enter the dilapidated park invites suspicion. Only those with some underhand purpose could have any use for the place.

We hopped over the low slate wall. Joseph made straight for the pine trees that run along the raised border with the remains of the GAA pitch. Much of the GAA pitch is now occupied by the recession halted construction of unoccupied and unsellable ‘luxury’ or even ‘boutique’ apartments. It had been intended, before the bust, to be ‘Clonakilty’s Waterfront.’ In fact, it’s nothing but a hideaway for gluesniffers and rodents.

The rest of the pitch, the part nearer to us, was still grass, being kept down by seven or eight old horses, belonging to local travellers. They were tethered up loosely there, drowsily munching away on the grass they spend their lives transforming into shit, which in turn fertilises the soil to produce copious grass.

Next to the vainglorious fuck-up and waste of ‘The Waterfront’, destined to cave-in or collapse, these rough, shoddy old survivors looked like the truly long-lasting and significant monuments.

There was some manshit hidden in the untended grasses of Waldaschaff Park. I had to avoid stepping in it at the same time as watching where the pine cones were landing in the grass- they were plopping down all over the place at a rate of three or four a minute now.

Nothing disgusts like manshit on your shoe. Give me dog shit anytime. Or horseshit. Horsehit hardly even stinks.

Between the pine cones and the shit there was also a randomly distributed selection of faded liquor cans, empty flagons, and broken green bottles. Weather-bleached chocolate-bar wrappers. A scorched circle that had been a bonfire a long time ago.

I didn’t want to look into the bushes or the tall grass around the edges of Waldashaff Park. You wouldn’t know what would turn up on an irish catholic wasteground. I didn’t fancy a caul or a fucking foetus stuck to the bottom of my shiny new slip-ons.

Pine cones burn and glow like the best of coal, and they last for hours, and they’re free. When Joseph was done climbing and plucking, and I had filled the large shopping bag, the house in Fairfield would have fuel for two or three nights to come.

I had arrived down the previous afternoon from Cork City, where I had done a reading as part of the Cork Spring Literary Festival. It had been grey and damp when I got in, but not raining. It was another small town weekday with nothing much for anyone to do but suppress their urges to do something mental to make the time pass quicker towards the weekend, when going mental is obligatory.

Everybody would be better off around here if they were just like those horses, just ate grass and shat. No need for prozac or alcohol then.

I sat and stretched out on the sofa, flicking between the 400 or so channels my parents have on their TV. It was mostly news I watched. The Libyan revolt was going well at the time. Whole cities were falling to the youth. I love it when the police, those riff-raff and half-wits with their tear gas and batons and worse, and dressed up like beetles from Pluto, are run out of a place. There’s no better sight upon this earth. I could watch police being thrashed and run out of it all day long. If cop-thrashing was on in the cinema I’d never leave the place.

The evening turned out a bit milder and, as the light declined, Joseph and I took a walk around the ring and up to St Mary’s graveyard, on top of a hill on the other, northern side of town. Joseph has an intimate knowledge of the graveyard and he was able to show me the plots that held the remains of many old friends, neighbours and acquaintances, many of them young men who had died by their own design. It slapped me awake to be reminded, one after another, in the particular sequence imposed by our walk and the layout of the graveyard, of all of these departed I had once shared the small territory of Clonakilty with.

I never heard of a policeperson killing him/herself. Why is that?

I am a kind person generally but my imagination is a cruel and mocking old bastard, toying with worst of possibilities all the time. How many towns in the world could Clonakilty twin with based on its suicide rate? Suicide Park, anyone? Of Shit and Suicide- A Local Guide! Perhaps, somewhere down the long tracks of future desperation, the tourism mandarins would have us rebrand ourselves as the shit and suicide capital of the western world, and put such on large glittering neon signs on all the approaches to the town. I saw Joseph then as the chief guide on the grand shit and suicide tour of Clonakilty, loving his work, surviving by it. It’s a science fiction story. A science fiction comedy. Someone should write it down. To think it is enough for me.

Anyway in a half an hour or so we had made our way all along the row of five or six pine trees and were down in the corner now right up against the fence surrounding the sewage plant. The shopping bag was brimming over with pine cones. They’re heavy in bulk. It would take the two of us to carry the bag of them home, a handle each, side by side.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall man approach us through the grass. I didn’t figure it at first. At first I thought it was just some guy out for a stroll or walking his dog, or looking for a good place to take a shit. I wasn’t bothered either that he was staring at us. I thought he was just a nosey old dickhead, of which there are a few around town.

It was then I noticed his two colleagues approaching from a slightly different angle to my rear. Some alert citizen had called the station on us and three Gardai had been sent along to find out, precisely, who we were and what we were up to.

The tall Guard reached us first. Trying to figure out what kind of an outfit we were, he scanned back and forth between us: myself stood upon the earth and Joseph high up in the pine tree, like some kind of angel or demon or woodsprite. Then- without any hint of hostility it must be said- the Guard addressed us:

Conkers lads is it that ye’re after?

Myself and the brother were momentarily frozen somewhere between hilarity and disbelief. Surely the man would know that we were as likely to be picking sapphires and rubies or melting gold watches off a fucking PINE TREE in FEBRUARY as conkers. I was surprised Joseph didn’t fall off the tree in a tsunami of laughter. But he kept his cool admirably:

No Guard, Pine Cones, said Joseph.

Pine Cones, the Guard repeated. Pine Cones. Alright, he said, and walked away, satisfied or stupefied, I don’t know which. I know he didn’t have a clue why we were gathering pine cones and that he didn’t want to ask us about it either.

A few seconds later his female colleague arrived. The third Guard, another mangarda, had decided to hang back, intending to tackle us if we breached the first line of defence I suppose. This female guard had more of the sleuth in her than the last fella and so she asked us our names and addresses, which we gave without hesitation. Whoever called them had probably told them who we were already anyway. I don't know if tree climbing or pine-gathering are on the statute books as crimes. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were. She didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter any further though and she let us go without any further questions.

After that the three Guards went on into the sewage plant for a snoop, I guess to see if we had been interfering with it. I reckon the last place I will ever be tempted to rob or to vandalise is a sewage plant. Things could badly backfire on you there.

As soon as they had satisfied themselves that myself and the brother had not been tampering with the shit product of Clonakilty, the three Guards made their way slowly and warily out of Waldaschaff Park. They got into their marked car, and drove off intrepidly in search of Blackberry pickers and Apple scrobbers and the like. I am sure that they stopped along the way to pick some conkers off a Pine tree, and some wine gums from a gorse bush while they were at it.

Gerrup! It's the Poetry Bus!

Yerp!

Tis my turn to captain the Poetry Bus!

I'll keep this quick and to the point.

Creativity should take you new places so,

You have to:

1. Go somewhere new.

2. Experience it.

3. Write about it.

If you like, you can write about an old memory that comes to mind while there (this often happens when somewhere new- if it doesn't, just write about the experience)

And you can link the experience and the memory if you're feeling adventurous.

The poem cannot be more than 40 lines long

The poem shouldn't rhyme. Aim for similar line length, giving a nice shape to the poem.

ie none of this -

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Pissing on flowers was disallowed.

I like this rule because it means I have to avoid rhyming, its one of my filthiest habits.

Seeing as this is just a bit of fun, that's not a hard and fast rule.

But break it and I will find you and kill you.

Also - somewhere new can be anywhere. But try and be imaginative, you're an artist, ya lazy bum.

Some places are off limits.

-Your house.
-Anywhere within a mile of home.
-Offaly.
-The Moon.

Go forth and poetify, my passengers.

See yiz on Monday.

The fistulous Glor sessions.

Apparently fantabulous isn't a word so blogger's spellchecker gave me some options.

Fistulous sounded the most offensive so I went with that.

I didn't know what it meant so I checked it out, and lo, it means hollow, like a scallion leaf. I like that.

So yeah, I'm saying the Glor is like a tubular green chute.

Work with me here.

Stephen James Smith always performs in a way that says 'I'm the alpha male'. Chest out - a sort of classical pose. One person said to me once he looks less like a poet and more like a rugby player. Tis true. He's a big butch fat headed fucker. But that's no bad thing. The only writers I respect are the ones who can take and throw a dig. People Like Mailer - who'd get wrecked and brawl with you and then bite your ear off if he was losing.

Writers need balls.

But. With great balls comes great responsibility. Thankfully Stephen uses his Kahunas for good.

He's not only a good poet. He is a nice bloke, confident, and a great host. He uses his presence to keep people quiet. He's also very considerate to the performers - always taking the time to plug their upcoming gigs etc. And while I'm at it, to me he is the gateway to this whole burgeoning scene in Dublin. One of those peeps who Malcolm Gladwell spoke about in Tipping Point. A connector...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Connector_(social)

He's a mother-fucking lynch-pin so he is.

He also has my other Malcolm Gladwell book and hasn't given it back the bollix.

He makes the Glor what it is though. Knowing so many people and working really hard to find quality acts. A poet flew over from London last night especially for fucks sake!

I fucking love the Glor. You should go. I remember realising once that true love makes you feel lucky.

Last night, with it's almost perfect balance of talent and a respectful eager audience, was like that. I was thinking this is special, a once off.

I'll never forget it.

And I was fucking SOBER! Imagine, an Irishman having fun in a pub sober. Strange times.

These are my three main reasons why last night's Glor was so special.

Marc O Reilly

http://www.marcoreillymusic.com/

A deceptively ordinary looking Irish guy with a beautiful smoky voice that doth plumb the very depths of bluesy Americana. And the things he does to his guitar could well be made illegal. He's playing a gig in town on Saturday. Well worth a look.

Harry Bird and the Rubber Wellies

http://hotdroprecords.com/harrybirdandtherubberwellies/

Harry is a Scot now living in Bilbao, Spain. The band on the night consisted of Harry plus a girl he quite possibly fell in love with while making a salad on the street (She was called Sweeney) plus Christophe, a Fiddle player. They are a folk band. They are brilliant. Not in a hollywood special effects woosh-bang-choke on your popcorn way. In a down home singing straight from the soul way. They had a sorta jokey vibe but some of their tunes had a real protest song bite to them too. They'll be playing at the Brown Bread Mixtape on Wednesday night.

Evan, the fellah down the back.

Evan was an Irish lad just back from Japan who was hoping to read some poems at the end of the night. I never got to see him read (sober and driving), but sitting beside him while the best Glor I'd ever been at unfolded was a great feeling.

He kept touching my leg.

Only messing.

So yeah. Fistulous. Like the scallion leaf in the pic. Only gigantic and welcoming, like a Luminarium tunnel, ablaze with the lithium glow of poetry and music.

And red instead of green.

Maybe that metaphor stinks like onion breath. I don't care, twas the spellcheckers fault not mine and to use the vernacular, was loike totally random. If it doesn't work so what. This is the internet bitches, nobody cares.