Tag Archives: humour

Talking to the Junkies

The white of the clouds is lying on the ground and you have a hoodie on and wrapped around that a caridgan with a hood and you forgot your cotton socks and the extra thick ones  from pennys are wearing thin and your mind is wandering and the times they are a changing.

but not for you or others just for some. Somewhere out there over the rainbow where the sun shines and the frost melts, a man with no goats or attachement to the land or the sea is singing a song he heard somewhere that goes “the mad ones never forget”. The girl on the bus beside him asks how to get of but he cant remember and the crowd sings waltzing matilda

so

he screams

and

she screams

and

the bus man roars and all at once there was crowd, a host of junkies on the quay.

they have held hands through it all. from the start to the end from him shitting in the bed to her doing the same. they have given their bodies to the brown and we walk by in disgust and once i said hello to them and he sneered and she winked and i wanted to tell them i didnt care if they stuck brown crap in the veins, no more than i didnt care if i am talking to a judge or a priest. but they didnt want to know no more than those others wouldnt want to know either. The identify their souls with who they tell themselves they are but all i see is the eyes and the skin and the mind and the thoughts

i’m selfish. I want to hear their stories, to laugh at the madness of their tales. the ones they tell once they give over with the sadness and the self pity. She would have been a ride in her day before it took it over. He was as ugly as fuck and dangerous looking in his wee skinny intimidating way.

the world passes on

 

And i apologise for not posting since 2016. more to me than to anyone else. I write at home on a laptop and few if any see it. The words are my friend and the sentences when  poetic my lovers and sometimes of an spring day they are hard to share because maybe no one else will embrace them the way i do but then i dream and i realise the truth of a butterfuly being only truely majestic when it flies free.

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The Feck it Introduction

There I was half way between nowhere and somewhere unimportant with the little one by my side (Irish for my daughter) and I decided it was time to write something to help the universe, my calling was to divulge some important information to the masses of gobshites around me, the kind of auld malarkey all those mad looking fuckers with the wiry hair and the mad stares in their eyes do write of a day.

Or even something those happy people write, you know the Americans with the happy smiles and how to be at peace with the world kind of look in their Prozac induced stares.

So there I was in a state of ponderous thought and she was given out like the bejaysus to me because she wanted to exit Easons (the book shop) to go to Pennys (the all the clothes you can wear for a fiver shop) and all I could do was look at two books on the shelf which were advocating the “Don’t give a flying Fuck lifestyle”.

Then it happened, an epiphany so it was. It was like Jesus himself came down and talked to me (I will talk later about dealing with voices in your head so all the psychopaths relax, I’m not forgetting you, you shower of loopers.)

The lad who wouldn’t get down of the cross even though we needed the wood, he whispered real gentle into my ear that the world needs a proper load of made up facts to be written down about how to live the whole planet earth life the Irish way. The Feck it way or even the You will be Grand way. So here is the start of it. Only 100000 mores words to be written so should be finished next week, not a bother on it.

Right so anyway on the way out there was a book of recipes to get you healthy and stuff so I decided to include some recipes as well, mightn’t be the healthy variety but sure who gives a feck for that shagging rabbit food anyway.

(c) Frank McGivney 30.08.16

 

 

Tipping along a recession poem/Story

 Tipping along

There I was scratching and itching with the fleas eating me from the lack of washing

and the line stretching and rolling half way around the town. Every man, woman and

dog of us waiting for the weekly hand out, beside hairy bikers who had one Honda 50

between them and alcoholics with the smell of cheap wine emanating from their blood

and all manner and shape of pirate with no boat and less hope. The smell of sweat in the room

was stifling and intoxicating, you could get drunk on it upon a Tuesday but still the

craic was mighty and if you got a wink from one of the girls sure wasn’t it as good as any

money. I was there lost, without a whole lot to be doing and even less to be saying with

greasy hair and horny eyes and no hope leaving school without a clue or a lover.

The auld one got sick of seeing me at home, alone and empty handed so the call was made

and it was decided one fine summers day that I would serve my time not as a corner boy

like I had expected but as an apprentice to a carpenter driving nails into walls, hanging

planks and sawing wood as straight as a crooked river bank. The wages were brutal,

the gaffer had a tongue made of Spanish leather but I was on a high.

I ended up driving a Ford Fiesta I inherited from an uncle who was still breathing but

only just. The provisional licence and the tax were late and the insurance out of date

I drove it like some cut of a lunatic along the main boulevard with the windows down

and the elbow stuck out for all to see and the Black Moroccan smelling like nettles from

some lads garden and polluting the town while Marley sang about how I felt.

Saturday night always came and I squeezed into the 501’s, sprayed the Lynx and hitched

my tent with the others boyo’s who were somewhere between half gobshites and full ones.

Drinking and talking bull at the local disco with the music blaring and the lights down low

to hide the truth. My eyes went crooked, the words began to slur and the knees got shaky and

a bewildered generation of lonely lusty misfits cradled pints instead of breasts. Girls of all

shapes and sizes meandered past in tight jeans and woolly jumpers which offered a hint of what

lay beneath, as they avoided our drunken stares. They were desiring something we didn’t have

and never would. Deep inside, behind the façade, the pain of loneliness was burning my soul as

we talked of rides and slappers and the clap while I dreamt of holding hands and walks on sandy

beaches and looking into her eyes and she loving me for what lay inside.

Then while I wasn’t looking the madness descended and grabbed a hold of me in its terrible grasp

Them with the fancy suits decided it would be a shocking grand idea, of a day, to go off and build

buckets of houses in every ass end part of a desolate country, in boggy fields and up mountains

where only a sheep would be mad enough to reside and they all located half way between the middle

of nowhere and the start of the end of the road.

The sweat still poured off my back but the laughter was lost. Banks stuffed money in my pocket

while I wasn’t looking, just in case I had an inclination to buy a couple of houses or a BMW too big

for my ways. Girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, who wore half nothing of a day and less of a night

stopped avoiding my drunken stares and started desiring the one thing I didn’t have before. I stood

like a bull in a field listening to all manner of lies and I not caring. Next thing I knew I was standing

at an altar with a monkey suit on, watching her walk up the aisle with a huge bill in my pocket and

bewilderment in my mind. She vowed to love me as long as she could spend what money I could earn.

Then everything came to a halt the recession descended and the banks wanted the cash

And she wanted the cash and I wanted to know how I got here.

Now the fiesta feels great and so does my old bed in my Ma’s house.

The blonde haired one is gone to hell or to Connaught or somewhere in between

and I sleep better than ever before with an empty wallet

but peace in my soul that the journey to madness is over and gone at last and I can be

who I was meant to be once more.

Frank McGivney 18.02.15

This is a kind of poem/story i wrote  that i don’t really think would ever be accepted by the mainstream but which i really like.

Poem, poetry, writing, recession Ireland, ireland, recession