We are the people who sit in dimmed light,
Frantically tapping at the chiclet keys,
Of our very expensive,
Computer which we bought to try,
To guilt ourselves into creation.

We are the people who verify,
The latest edit has made its,
Way down the pipeline, past,
The gatekeepers of content, and,
Out into the light.

We are forgotten updaters, who,
Cut and paste, type,
Backspace, click,

We are the many unknown,
Hitherto, heretofore and henceforth.
Our dent in the universe is,
As small,
As it is colossal.


The People are Crying – a response to Michael D Higgins’ “The Prophets are Weeping”

Well Michael D, our fine President, wrote a little poem, so I present to you, my response:

Our president sits down to his desk,
He considers the keyboard,
He mulls over his thoughts.
Then, releasing a breath,
He begins to type,
A new work.
The prophets are weeping,
That’s a good hook,
It’s emotive, and inspired.
The people are weeping,
Twenty-eight per cent,
Who live in deprivation.
The people are weeping,
Ninety-nine per cent,
Who have less than you.
The children are crying,
In direct provision.
The families are crying,
In Dublin flats.
The mothers are crying,
Criminals for making a choice.
The people are crying,
No money left.
So while you wax poetic,
Excuse the pun,
While you busy yourself,
Writing away,
About this world of terror.
Remember, little man,
You sold out your people,
You are no better.


Romantic Ireland’s Lazarus Jape

Remember when they limit your ability to speak,

People had to die to earn your five-day week.

The status quo, remains just so, if nobody objects,

Brazen burglarising that insults your intellect.

Though I love a pumping party, I was never less excited,

For the parties up in Dublin t’which I’ve never been invited,

Political and critical, of the people, not the state,

The state we’re in, how maudlin, they sneer with unmasked hate.

Remember through the hardship and the hunger and the pain,

The necessary austerity, the laws and lows, insane.

Remember when they limit your ability to speak,

People had to die to earn your five-day week.


Acerbic reflections on past hurts

Raised in destitution,
Desolate dark resolutions,
High enough to bend the air,
Break away, rip and tear.
For me it always seeks forever,
Circumventing moments,
Cutting like the cold,
Can feel myself get old.
And what is life?
It cuts like a knife. 
Want to make the world a wife.
Want to be free again.
When speak you my name,
You spoke it soft and said it quiet,
Like you wanted to be kind,
The tongue caressed the mind.
My soul is beaten down,
It’s bruised and it is worth so little,
We fight but its alright,
Make it through another night.

Morning-time Motorised Ritual Becomes Venue for Criticism

Slithering sycophants,
Cradled by the bosom of benevolent business,
Intelligence never equaling greed.
Toss them pigs some more feed.
Empty days,
Empty years at sea, floating in obscurity.
I thought I would be famous, I was wrong.
Everything I want is gone.

Grey and dismal in spring and in summer,
Graceful and hopeful yeah she was a stunner.
What the hell is joy anyway?
Gone for eternity, here for a day.
Where the hell is your pride anyway?
No self respect without drama and sex,
Fit so fake with your protein shake.
Pout shut out, your open mouth,
Never produced anything of value;

Picture perfect what a bitch you became,
Flicker frenzy I remember your name.

An Ode to Hope

Do not dismiss hope in favour of fear,

Hatred takes hold in hearts that revere,

The negative spaces that outline your soul,

Driving a wedge to fill in the hole.

Whole and hole are one and the same,

Freedom is taking on some of the blame,

Accountable always and willing to change,

Know when to destroy and when to arrange.

The love that we hold inside of our hearts,

Rusted and rushed and made of false starts,

Is love none the less, emotions run high,

Without an embrace we may as well die.

Open your heart to the warmth of the sun,

Attempt beyond heartache to love everyone,

This life is a fairground, the world is a ride,

A coming and going like wind and the tide.

Mechanistic in nature I cling to the bits,

The littlest fragments of hurt when it hits,

Frail like the kindling that burns in the hearth,

Over and over before I could start.

We are not the computers that we use to take flight,

The tools don’t define us, they bask in our light,

A machine with perspective and a heart made of gold,

for all it’s misgivings tries to care for it’s old.

Open your heart and open your mind,

Remember our singular similar kind,

Strength is in numbers and the power of word,

Ensure you are clearly and effectively heard