The Irish language

As well as ruling the world the Irish also own the world of linguistics by the introduction of one word which covers every possible known sentence in the world. This word is unique to Ireland and is of course “feck”.
Feck can mean anything that you want it to mean but it has to be used wisely because of how powerful a word it is. It also has extensions such as fecker which is it in noun form. And feckless which is a new kind of feck used by posher types. As an example take the following sentence in common use .” Feck sake paddy you only after tearing the guts out of the bitch.” Which translates to ” ah now paddy what did you go and drive the tractor at such a high speed for and destroy the engine “.
Or “I feck the little fecker up good and proper the little gobshite” one translation of this would be “I shall severely reprimand my young son for doing something a bit silly”

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Reading

Charles Bukowski now that’s a man who could write. No political correctness or bullshit just hard living drinking whiskey , working his way through women and jobs. I reading factotum at the moment. I want to write

like him, maybe a novel that gets banned but then becomes a cult classic. Something Irvine Walsh would be proud of but set in the land of Ireland among the squalor and the pain.

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To write a novel where sunsets are seen through darkened curtains and moonlight nights are lost in bars and whorehouses spilling liquor and loving women

Monday Morning Rambling

The bar is shut and I’m standing here with a bottle in my hand, grime in my hair and thoughts in my mind. The bottle is empty, some of its contents is splattered by the side of the bar. That guy that sold ideas had ruined my chances with the blonde with the short skirt and the long legs. She gave up smiling as I gave up on the night. She left with someone else as I knocked him out. Well I wished I had knocked him out. it was the whiskey he drank that knocked him out. The doorman knocked three shade of shit out of me while throwing the pair of us up the alleyway. He only did because he fancied Ms Blonde himself. I could see jealousy in his eye as he opened the skin above my eye with a punch. I don’t know what I am doing with the bottle. somehow I imagined sticking it in to his face, but I wouldn’t be able to do that. I throw it against the window and it smashes. The bottle not the window. I run , where do you run to when you have no where to go.

What I Listened To When I Listened To Music This Week – Leonard Cohen – Popular Problems

really good review of Leonards ew album

For The Rabbits

Live fast, die you, and leave a beautiful corpse

James Dean said that…. what a load of nonsense! Lately the evidence for living slow, dying old and leaving a wrinkly corpse is piling up!

Jonny Cash arguably put his best albums out in his 70’s, shortly before his untimely death. Dolly Parton’s still churning out country-hits and drawing huge crowds at 68, and David Bowie’s not been this prolific in a long time, despite being well into his sixth decade.

Bruce Springsteen & Mick Jagger are still seen as sex symbols, despite strutting (somewhat embarrassingly) about the place well into their 60’s and Bob Dylan’s racked up album number 46 in just 52 years, and you wouldn’t bet against him making it to 50 before he hits his 80’s.

Talking of 80’s, perhaps the oldest swinger still in town, Mr Leonard Norman Cohen, has just reached his, even he though…

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Competition long listed

Long listed in a competition about chicken soup . Considering how much of it I have eaten I shocked I didn’t win lol http://brilliantflashfictionmag.wordpress.com/2014/09/25/finish-the-story-contest-results/#more-314

chicken Soup Ice Cream
She met him at an international student exchange.
He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
“Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
“Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
“All right,” Sharon said.
She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
They went for ice cream instead.
“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
“Does it ruffle your feathers if you are feeling hot?” I asked him. Those brown eyes that I would look into for a lifetime went out of focus until a smile spread across his face with his comprehension.

“Yes, it is very stimulating,” he laughed, placing his hand on my arm gently, spreading his touch to reach my heart.

Thankfully the parlour didn’t serve chicken soup flavoured ice cream. I would have tried it if he had insisted, his awkward stiffness entrancing me into submission.

Six months later I sat at a table in his hometown, my stomach rumbling with excitement and panic. I smiled as he put the bowl in front of me. The one spoon, I tasted under his hopeful gaze and pretended to like. Amidst the giggling and talking we held each other’s hands with love. I looked back, as his arm wrapped around me, to see a waitress emptying my bowl, but his eyes were on me alone.

Morning

Pen in hand searching for words . The other gripped firmly. One used the other motionless. Words spill out on to the page slow at first then erupting . Sprouting out in fountains of sentences and paragraphs. They speak to my soul telling me their plans their past their future.
Starting in a field not knowing where the path will lead but not that it matters. It’s the sights along the way, the words of the people you meet the smiles the tears the dreams. None of them are yours they belong to the story to the characters. They take your hand some hold tight and some loose and they lead you to their world