Tom waits interview 1973 inspiration

Last night tom waits told me through time from 1973 that he was a jack Kerouac fan and that his song the heart of Saturday night was about the Beat Generations search for their place. I lay listening and words whispered in my mind that I scribbled on a lined page that formed some sort of a poem or perhaps two. until mindfulness enveloped me and I drifted away to the other place inside of us all. Until at 4 in the morning the clitter clatter of my heart woke me up on the stairs taking me from the slumber of one heaven to the paradise of another.

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Character

A client was in with me today and he told me this story about a lad he used to hire a house to. It was shocking funny one but better than the laughter it caused was the character it gave me for one of my novels. I was just writing and I thought that yeah this lad is who I need and then I thought of another story someone else told me and I thought what if they were the same person and so they became the same person.
I think I am going to like this guy I hope he doesn’t go of and get himself killed or clean up his act before I get a couple of thousand words out of the mad lunatic
The picture is of a bottle of tullamore dew I got for birthday from my big sister. It’s grand sup of whiskey as pure as a virgins thoughts in mass

Fairies a poem revisited

One day you hear a story about fairies and next day you write a bit of an auld poem about fairies and then you get to thinking that you like living in the world in your head where you can knock on the magic door three times and you enter a different place where roses are blue and violets are red and the sky turns green when the sea is low.
Life
The fairies are lost
God forgot them
Left here to gaze
On our world from
The bottom up

The dot of light
The buzz of night
The sense of someone
The butterfly’s wings
Tell you they are here
Watching and playing
Listening and singing

The wonder of child
In the eyes of a man
(C) frankie McGivney just now

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Ireland today

The government doesn’t realise it’s shagged.
The wettest country beside a huge ocean is going to install water meter to charge for the very thing that floods us every year.
We love to complain about the weather.
The guards ( that’s our police ) are bearing lumps out of peaceful protestors. They had to get a loan of the riot gear because Irish people are usually asleep during the whole riot thing
Cows still produce enough Methane gas Ireland to feed all the bullshit in the dail (that’s our parliament. )
Irish girls are still pure gorgeous
Black pudding is one of our national foods.
An Irish man is the president of America once more
Leprechauns are real just like the fairies aka the little people.
Black humour is our passion. Nothing like the craic (that’s fun) at a funeral .
The poitin in the shops is fake But don’t drink the real stuff unless you want to go blind

Irish Bakewell Buns

Have to retweet this . It’s pure class so it is. Canadians and Irish are the the same nation separated by a big ocean , everyone knows that

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Growing up in Canada, I’d never really heard of bakewell tarts until a few years ago.

In fact, since I moved to Ireland almost exactly 1.5 years ago, I’ve been introduced to a whole slew of new things (I’m sure you’re shocked to hear that).

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Some things I’ve learned:

1. Sliced Pan = sliced bread

2. Potato chips are crisps. Most of you know that. But did you know crisps can be a sandwich filling? And, in fact, all you would need for this sandwich are crisps, sliced pan and butter? Did you know that was a thing? I didn’t.

3. When someone asks you if you want salad with your sandwich at a cafe and you say yes, you generally get several kinds of mayo-laden potatoes and coleslaws. Gotta say, I don’t always mind. I really like mayo.

4. What we think is breakfast in Canada is a piece…

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Did you kiss him

Did you kiss her
No Nora saw you
No you didn’t
Your nothing but a bastard
Fuck off
Scum
Don’t cry
You never loved me
I will always love you
You couldn’t
I could and i do
Was it her legs
I didn’t kiss her
Nora said you were behind the hotel wrapped around each other
Ouch what you do that for
I had to hit something
I just gave her a hug
I knew it she is a tramp wearing a skirt showing of all she has to the world
She was upset about her father
Do I look stupid
Her father died last week she was crying
Okay
I have known her for years and she was crying I just hugged her
Nora said you were all over each other
Nora is jealous

Extract from a book of conversations I am working on

(C) frank Mcgivney 2014

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Life

The fairies are lost
God forgot them
Left here to gaze
On our world from
The bottom up

The dot of light
The buzz of night
The sense of someone
The butterfly’s wings
Tell you they are here
Watching and playing
Listening and singing

The wonder of child
In the eyes of a man
(C) frankie McGivney just now

Too late

It’s too late for writing poetry and the time for prose had passed by with the closing of your eye lashes and the yawning of your mouth. You sit facing the screen wanting to go to bed but hear words hold you in place. You wonder why you do the things you do. The clandestine things of love and lust , of procrastination and laziness. But yet all around the birds sing a merry tune to the silence of my discontent. The priest has lost its grip . The ages of youth have passed me by laughing in contempt at my folly and I smile for all beyond that wall is full of wonder and joy

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Walk the path

It was already past midnight when the howling came over the radio . I looked at its pink plastic and shivered. A pain spread from my arm to to my chest and gripped me with all its ugly teeth. I could feel the sofa wet beneath as the salty smell of me connected me to its material. Then it was gone and so was I. Floating above my body thinking I like looked alright for an auld fella. The light in the tunnel would have blinded me a minute before but now it was just a feeling rather then a physical sight. Across this bridge I walked in a state of contentment. The three spirits whispered in my mind while below the fire burnt warning me of the impending torture