Post Crosshairs

being a dictator
is like being a rock star
short sharp bursts of success
feted by world leader groupies
all chasing after the spotlight
then it turns to just guns
you lie there post crosshairs
they exude the same satisfaction
whether you are living or dead
truth  reality  honour
irrelevant to the political scum

Poem - The Cello

I did my best to play it at my chin

the big fiddle they gave me

I really did

and then some idiot said

hey asshole, it is a cello

you play it on the ground

In true irish fashion he got a slap in the mouth

Not for what he said

but the way that he said it, with no manners

But inside I was gutted 

to have tried to play the thing on my shoulder for so long 

banging my head against the wall and all the world laughing

not that I give a fuck about them

but inside there is just this little tiny spark of self esteem left

things I know I can do

if I could only ever get a chance

with music or words

or a woman

if only

if only mf

but all the time it gets more simple

and more complicated...

Poem - The Incessant Bell

the bell was ringing incessantly

what could it mean

a bomb – surely no, Gerry is here

but shit, the conspiracy theorists

a fire,

I smell no smoke

home time – couldn’t be already

tea time – that must be it

I might go down to the canteen, sorry,
the Members dining area

and get a cup of tea and a kit kat

I wonder when there will be a vote

about something

these boyos don’t do much here

ah well €8,234.28

not bad for a month
.
..
_____________________________________
Background: extract from a story yesterday relating to TD voting patterns...
Kerry South Tom Fleming, a new TD, only voted on six of the 20 occasions he was signed in.

But last night he said it took him a few days to understand that the bells that ring around Leinster House before votes were for calling TDs to the chamber..

..

A Poem - The Hour Of The Creative

The hour of the creative

somewhere between dark and light

all the worker drones gone to bed 

to dream of their transient security and boring lives

the ghoulish creatives soar

on cheap wine or homegrown drug

wrestling poems or their own poison from the Muse

parading their mad maker gene on a global stage

intellectual fucking with creative brothers or social sisters

all to the beat of Mussorgsky’s Golitsïn's Exile

each calling to their own particular diaspora
help me - buy me - sell me - steal me

the alternating current 

of creative poverty

I’m rich - I’m poor - I’m rich..

.

meanwhile back @ the homegrown drug factory...

Land of the Thief ..Home of the Killer

.

are you an American female
playing with your goldfish

or your manicured dog

or neurotic pussy

meanwhile they jail the student poet.. Ayat al-Gormezi*

in Bahrain, for speaking her mind

of course the 5th Fleet is there

don't make waves, don't mention it

it is our little dirty dictatorship

yet the goldfish need fed

a major distraction away from global ‘affaires’

except I don't really care anyway

I'm an american

and a professional ignorer of truth
perhaps married or dating

an indiscriminate killer and thief (overseas)
where the most lucrative killing and stealing is

I might even qualify as a moran...
that's moran not mormon

except moran is an Irish name,  close but no cigar

moron it is.. I'll say it slow.. m o r o n....

they're embargoed anyway.. cigars...

for ideological reasons

thought police, yeah right, it's only the 21st Century

land of the thief

home of the killer

but go delude yourselves

in your 1.6 suburban home

and 2.4 snotty fatty children

(the point 4 is the fat factor

in case you missed the subtle insult)

cruise around your unreliable american car

make love to your nebulous husband
or vice versa
even buy the new Chinese/American/Chinese stuff at the Mall

then go make yourself useful

kill the goldfish

http://ayat-algormezi.blogspot.com/