Tag Archives: death

Your door

It died

The weed


My shoe

It pierced

the hole

The rain




I choose

The door

To lie

My hunger


my mind

To cry


The days

I forget

Before the



My home.


Your door


My room




The tears









Frankie mcgivney 10 sept 2019

Apartment 45 a short extract: the Death Metal paragraph

The Death Metal paragraph

A racket is grating from behind the mould ridden door of one of the apartments, a din only a drug induced frenzy could produce, it screeches through the hallway. Beneath the plucked whines of the steel strings is the pulsating beat of a drummer who has lost the plot in a utopia of mind altering pleasure. The voice is demented, the vocal utterances reminiscent of someone been lowered slowly into a pit of sabre toothed, well fed but hungry boars. Jesus has long flowing hair apart from one side which he meticulously maintains shaved to an evening shadow consistency. His parents came from Africa where they had loved God enough to call their first born son after their saviour. I imagine the second went by the handle of Moses or Abraham. Jesus had inherited his mother’s propensity for excessive fat accumulation and his father’s poor taste in music. The cross upon which we were nailed grew in torture on a regular basis as the African prophet of Death Metal music practiced his self-composed creations with his fellow musically challenged buddies of Brad and Lucinda. Lucinda from the Bronx had a chewing gum addiction and drove men both married and single to distraction with her choice of minimal material based clothing. Brad was sired from the loins of a man who held greed as the central theme of his life’s philosophy. One day Brad would be saved from a detox centre by his Bentley driving daddy and taken to a better place. A world he should never have tried to reject where the girls all have perfect complexions and the staff enter by the back entrance hidden from view by an artistically designed hydrangea.

(c) Francie McGivney 26.01.16

The funeral (a poem)

The funeral


Along the crumbling sides

slithering deep in their

disturbed home the worms

turned from her cries

A virginal tongue hung

out of the gaping mouth

where a trail of garlic

tinged, spittle dribbled

along the pale cheek

above the white collar


The decrepit retiree, who had only

the week before, in a moment of

clarity concerning the inevitable,

picked out his own final home;

a mahogany coloured box

with fake silver handles and

a cross in the style of a Celtic

Warrior’s sword-handle emblem,

dragged a shot from a newly lit

Major, watching the smoke trail

in blue fog circles through a ray

of freezing sunlight and yawned


The busy one who never missed

a funeral, state occasion or the

seldom invited weddings

nodded a fickle head

Containing a barren brain,

Supported on a crooked body,

Turned to his non attentive neighbour

who ignored his complaints of

annoyance at the delay the

audacity would cause to the

rest of his self important daily

schedule of gossip filled meetings

There was a brown jackass in the glen

who regularly refused to comply

and a herd of cattle in the pasture

waiting with teats in need of emptying,

united in ignoring the amorous

advances of a rampant bull jailed

behind an unfortunate white washed wall.

On the hill above the honey valley

a goat mixed with sheep consuming

anything foolish enough to succumb

to natures desire to bring

forth a vegetative head or end

out of the craggy stone-dotted soil

In a wooden shack a chicken delivered

Her morning prize unaware of a bushy

Tailed devious desire for her flesh

All of them combined in a distinct

Lack of concern for the occurrence

The boy’s body never flinched

His eternal sleep unperturbed

His soul shed not a single tear

His mother’s prone body

six foot down, five foot length

ways and loads of feet around

shook with her loss of the only

One who smiled at her for no

reason other the inherent desire

to reply to her own

The cantankerous man

who smile was never found

who grumbled at teenagers

who snuffled at gossipers

who cursed freely at priests

and shopkeepers and everyone

in-between, with equal resolve

reached out unthinking a hand

calloused but gentle to take her

from her refuge, ignoring the

Scratches, leaving the broken nails

in his cheek to be removed in time.

She melted into him until the heart beat

steadied and the mind fogged enough

to never forget but to survive

as the patient clay filled the space

She had vacated.


© francie mcgivney spain summer 2015


The dead plot (work in progress)

Its dead

but they wont bury it

not knowing its demise

its there to torment

to weaken my will

to break my soul

to drive me to whiskey

maybe its not all bad


Bukowski is talking

marked by a slip

a taxation page

i thought he would laugh

He lies upon Palahniuk

Plotting to have nightmares

for all the others



The plot

a beginning

any page could do it

a middle

where boredom festers

the end

what they want to hear


Truth melts

as thoughts become ink

spots on a page,

changing from reality

to the angels voice

of fictions plot.

(c) Frank McGivney 14 January 2015

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

Writing with your soul

I was reading a book about the ten things that happen to you when you die . I’m on number two the tunnel. But number one is about your soul leaving your body and floating up above it. I got to thinking that while I am not into religion I do like to believe in a soul for the reason it makes life more interesting. Especially as it relates to writing. I find when I am writing I am outside of my body and totally absorbed into some outer dimension where the characters talk to me and the action of the story develops. Even as I write this I am not really consciously thinking I am just letting it all flow into the phone. Of course on a second edit there is more thought of plot and ryhmn and such like. But definitely there is that feeling of been lost from the material world and been sucked into some place where you are floating away from your body. Often I come out of a writing session to find I have been sitting awkwardly and a leg has gone dead. Is this the same as where the mind goes as your soul after your body dies, heads for that car park where you find out if you will be riding a donkey or a Porsche in the next life.


Just been also thinking about the whole idea of following the prescribed format for screenplays and stories the hero journey. And it all just plays to much like forced rubbish to me. The hero is in a bad way someone makes it worse but in the end he resolved the problem and grows due to it. I don’t know if I want to be following the level of prescription.maybe my characters tell me that he learns nothing and he isn’t bothered by a conflict he just ploughs through life having fun or killing folk or building skyscrapers where he was hired to build a cottage