Tag Archives: irish

A seat

The bench, old and worn, was cold to the touch through the wool of my trousers

Hi

I could see a line of grime etched into the lines beneath her face as she looked up from her can and threw the shortest of dirty looks expertly mingled with a sound mixture of disinterested distain

Sometimes no doesn’t have to be put Into words or perhaps a look is the strongest no

Still and all it’s not a bad day all things considered

The look again this time I noticed a bunch of her hair stuck together with blood or sweat or vomit or whatever sticks hair together when a member of the human fraternity doesn’t get to avail of the washing facilities of a day or even a month

You can go fuck of if you think you getting something out of me I’m no hooker

I’m no punter either

Good cos I’m particular about who I be having the fun with

Me too

Yeah right

Yeah right exactly

Don’t be getting fucking smart you fucker

I just saying I not into hookers

You should be

Ah here

Well the state of you with the head on you and that Gammy eye and you look like your mother picked out the clothes. Is that wool?

Feck sake you’re worst than a commentator on one of them shows

What shows

You know the xfactor bollixology

Here listen don’t be using that kind of language in front of a Lady

Fair enough

And a slow breeze trailed across our path while we both looked on at the city passing by. a quietness in the kaleidoscope of hustle

You know no one talks as they walk

I looked up and listened and watched

Your man over there is talking on his phone

I thought I told you not to be a wise fucker

You only mentioned being a smart one

Whatever. He is on a phone that don’t count

Why not

It just doesn’t

Why

Cos it’s like the mad cunts who talk to themselves it’s not real talking it’s just pretend chitter chatter

I see what you mean

About the phone

No about them not talking they just are all rushing

Yeah

Yeah

Have you a light

Have you a fag

Yeah

Right then

And I saw her eyes were brown when she held the flame

She would have been a beautiful daughter to some Da a long time ago

She held the smoke deep inside, feeling it’s warmth before slowly releasing it back into the world

I better make a move

She nodded and looked back down

I touched her shoulder gently when i stood, the briefest of contacts; she didn’t react, maybe she hadn’t noticed

I walked on with out a word been uttered to a soul, a member once more of the rushing throngs

(C) frankie mcgivney

Just a random story of top of my head I hope it reads okay. The words I love to write

Broken thoughts

There’s a picture of a man

They believed to follow

His cross dug deep

In their mindless

Faith and she looks

To change my thoughts

While the roses fade to ice

Melting my heart broken

Resting in the decay

Molten leaves rot

In the sun

And she sings

And she prays

And she cries

Out why

Why does the song

Skip the line

Between the path

And the roar

And broken my mind

Bears the crime

There’s a picture

Of a cross where nails

Split the scene

Of what I believe

The folly of love

Thrown upon the flames

Where the temple tore

Down the steeples

Sting of life’s repose

And I cry

And I die

And I fly

Wondering where

The lyrics found

The line to draw

(Draft of random words)

It’s only worth it

It’s only worth it

If it’s worth it

Wheres the anger gone

The fight against the clampdown

Wheres the anger gone

The fight we never lost

Black and white

Brown and yellow

One and all

Just one race

One people

Wheres the fight gone

One creed

Dump your trump

Your losing card

Take the fist

From your balls

Raise it

Once then twice

Where’s the heart gone

One race

One creed

Take your religion

Your national pride

And burn it with your flag

Where’s the fight gone

One race

One creed

Francie talks

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

 

 

they got him on milk and alcohol

A wee paragraph I like from a bit of an auld novel I really like

 

 

The yearning inside for the poison she fed me has shrouded my whole existence in a fog of decrepit uncertainly. I want to look in their eyes and reach in their pockets and take from them what I need, I know they have some, all these scumbags use it, little bags of pure muck far from the pedigree it once was when it grew in some mountain side field of a third world shit hole of a country. I have the money, I don’t have the balls. I have seen it done in films, the brown bubbling on the metal spoon, the sizzle of the demon being sucked into the plastic, the decaying teeth pulling the band tightly around a limb to coax a vein to the surface, the dribble of blood marking the incursion, the metal point penetrating, the skin lifting gently, the depression of the scene and of the plunger, the dragons blood mixing into the addicts stream, the eyes flutter, the face relaxes and they are gone, far from this world to ride on the back of whatever demons they fear and love the most.

() Francie McGivney

Looking Back (a rewrite)

Looking Back

Words drove nails inside

Eyes smiled a frown from your truth

A reminder of country days in field of grey

A curl in need of straying around

The soft lines of your perfect neck

It would have been good of you to tell

To exhale the only breath of beauty

My smile might have worked

My tales could have leapt

The truth you revealed as you walked away

nearly lost to the crowd

As it swayed in its own majestic way

(c) Francie McGivney

looking back

your words kind of bored me in a simple kind of way
that look you had in your eye it turned me sour
the perfume made me remember days stuck in a cattle shed
to be honest I felt a desire to wring the stray curl around your neck
but you know you should have told me
you could have let me know
I might have smiled a bit more
I might have even told you a tale
but I had to find out as you walked away
and I nearly missed it

as it swayed in the most majestic way

(c) Francie McGivney

Novel Extract Chapter 19

Chapter 19 Hospital days.

Then the night came when the ward was silent, apart from the background hum of various life monitoring or body function sustaining machines, the nurses in their station had their heads submerged in the reams of paperwork which accumulated during their daily shifts, the fellow residents either slept freely or in their coma’s and I silently put my foot on the ground beside the adjustable bed and the other one followed and combined they tentatively discovered they had regained the strength to support the rest of me. I stood up straight, and my eyes wandered around the ward and took in the view from this new higher perspective where the ancient cracks were subtly hidden behind the building’s sterile yellow paint, the oxygen bearing tubes stood out from their rotating connections, the sacred heart looked down upon the broken and battered, the injured and sick, the virtuous and the sinner. I breathed deeply, slowly testing the first step, feeling it give but not fully, then the next gave as well but didn’t disappoint. I looked back to the distance of a foot I had travelled and knew the road lay ahead of me once more. I took one sloping step after another until I found myself circumventing the separating curtain between my isolation and that of the man with the loud snores and pungent flatulence, who I had only saw in my imagination on account of his determination to grasp the final strand of his privacy via a blue and white striped retractable screen. I was aiming for the toilet, a noble destination for my first excursion unaided. The blood drifted from my brain as I rounded the bed of my hidden companion who looked at me with concern and a worrying curiosity as I leant against his mobile food table for support, trying to reconcile the withered specimen in front of me with the rotund grease-ball image I had imbedded in my visual cortex.

“Are you alright there buddy?” the old timer’s accent revealed a long forgotten hint of the old country behind his strong New York tones. It was always the Irish condition to retain deep inside of one’s soul the country’s accent for the benefit of fellow citizens of the land of leprechauns, irrespective of the length of time since its rhythms had dominated the person’s linguistic charms. It was a powerful sort of secret code capable of resurfacing the deepest held fears and feelings of inadequacy from years of religious based sexual and moral repression, in the most successful and confident of emigrants. Its malignant purpose was to restore the natural order of the Irish way, where no one was ever allowed to indulge in the audacity of stepping above their predefined station in life. A station based on parental roots, primary school inadequacies and level of skill with a hurley or football held in the hands of red faced youths who were expected to retain the national drive for homogenise behaviour and to avoid stepping beyond the safety of the proverbial rails.

“Yeah not a bother, just a bit of a head rush” I said looking down at his prone body sensing the danger in the way his eyes fixed upon me and in the look he had about him of a man who retained an interest in the goings on of the land in which he was born and raised, despite having lived longer away from its green fields than in them.

(c) Francie McGivney