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Today’s Poem

Muck Savage --Dave Lordan

The minute the fiddler takes to the stage betwixt the rapper and the organist I dive out through a slit in the rear of

the reggae tent, meaning to take a slash and chill. But there’s a rave throbbing in the woods beyond. Bonfires radiating inside holly, spruce, and ash.

Canvas banners thrashing in the storm. Chinese lanterns chase across the speckled dusk like molten bloodhounds packed against the moon.

I’m twisted, I’m a little bit skagged. Can’t recall who I tagged along to the festival with, what o’clock or eve it is, precisely ...

How the trout am I gonna get home? ... Did I bring a tent ... Yo! What the sugar’s the hun with the glow sticks, the yokes, the coloredy fleece

called again? ... If you fly with the crows you’ll be shot with the crows ... my Dad said. Could be doing with a suck on a spliff ... a dab ... so scanning fore, then midground

for someone to tap, I sketch three paralytics at a tipped-over shitehouse, legless, clasping wire fence to hold upright. Never piss on electric wire.

In Tipperary Gah shirts. Tall guys. Hurlers. Sinewy bastards. Dude in the middle bending double belching steam and spittle like a hot bog

in Iceland, chucking up loads. Distressed he is. Heavyweight retching bout. Losing control. Nearly throwing the towel in, collallapsing.

I see him stretched out to dissolve in the land and its zillions of ants, trillions of carcasses. What a banquet he’d make

for the jackdaws. If ya lie down with the dogs ya’ll rise up with the fleas. Small urge in me for calling an ambulance. Small

but rapidly growing. ’Til the others start egging him on. G’wan Jamey! Fucking champion craic man! Jamey swims with the general will —

hauls himself rigid and warrior-tall, drawing gallon-swills of boosting oxygen, then arches crablike at the waist to balance

backwards on his massive palms, stalling as the constellations eddy, the cosmos rearranges around him, ’til his whistling tongue-tip

comes aligned with the prong of The Plough and he launches like Polaris through the murk, propelling himself straight, hurling bilious floods

of intermingled crackers, croutons, crisps, sausage rolls, Diarmuid’s Special Offer Salsa Dips, Guinness, Smirnoff Ice, Devil’s Bit, roasted nuts

and Dubonnet and effervescent codeine foam and fizz up up

up over the fence up over the flags up over the maize

down into the pines down into the flames down into the rave.

#Today's Poem #Dave Lordan #Corona of Poetry

Review| The World in Flames by Dave Lordan

http://dlvr.it/MjZtrk #HeadStuff

#Literature #LIterature Reviews #Dave Lordan #Dennis O'Driscoll #Jarvis Cocker

The Lit Review |78| Spooky Happenings in Enniscorthy

http://dlvr.it/M69cCR #HeadStuff

#Literature #The Lit Review #Dave Lordan #Enniscorthy #Gorse

The Lit Review |71| Brexit Erotica

http://dlvr.it/LktDXx #HeadStuff

#Literature #The Lit Review #brexit #Dave Lordan #Donal Ryan

Dave Lordan's EXCELLENT "The Fucking Titantic" was on Moving Poems this morning, with a nice little chat with the video editor. Excellent because it comes dramatically and torrentially and overcomes itself, which is great given its subject.

#titanic #dave lordan #poem

Your words were boots Joe, boots in Lewisham When black and white and yellow riot put down the Nazi scum, And in Trafalgar Square in ninety-one When the fury of our rainbow class put Thatcher on the run Your words were firing like a gun Joe, firing like a gun. I heard your booming words echo Through the streets of Prague- when we shut the World Bank down And you were roaring vengeance in Genoa when we had to fight through gas and bullets just to hold our ground And when the many-headed future met in Florence Everyone knew your name Joe Your songs were all around- And when they threw me in a cell Joe I sang straight to hell Joe And when they stood me up in court Joe I hummed the Brixton guns Joe Oh Joe! when you got up to sing It was a fist in a copper's face It was a pitchfork in a landlord's neck It was a bullet in a contra's gut It was an arrow in the eye of a general It was a kick in the balls for the rich. It was everything good Joe It was everything good And when us Zombies and us Rastas and us Punks and Workers win You will be singing in our blood Joe You will be dancing like speed in our veins.

Tribute to Joe Strummer by Dave Lordan

#Dave Lordan #Tribute to Joe Strummer #Poetry #Joe Strummer #The Clash

Hope, ya ould mutt, I hear yer in bits. I heard somebody stomped on yer throat an all ya can do now is grunt. I heard six drunk jocks set ya on fire while ya were goofin. Ya ould trout! Ya look like ya were washed up in an oilspill. There’s only a seepin raw hole in yer face instead uv a nose since yer septum fell out. Yer still snortin though. Yuv more tracks than the DART. Yuv every disease known tuh rats. Ya got herpes, shingles an worms. Ya got flyswarms, maggots an lice. Cockroaches crawlin all over ya groupthink Tiocfaidh ár lá. St Vincin De Paul wud rejeck ya. Yud have Augustine out on the lock. St Francis’d turn away yodellin. This time it ain’t jus a scare ya might really be dyin. Even the French seem tuh have banned ya, blottin yer puss with the law. Yemen is bleedin from multiple wounds tuh revive ya. Mosly, here in zombied Ireland, I can’t even see ya, yer such a famished fuckin wraith. Ya flicker in an out uv the view, accept no particular shape, like steam from a pipe or a backalley splodge that can’t be washed off. I know ya wanna give up. I know yer only hope may be tuh dissolve, become a puddle or a rock, sit it out for a new geological era. I know yuv ten millin ex-loves tuh attend tuh in wrecks uv the deep, coffin-ships an u- boats an steamships o seaweed an flutin bones for ya. I know yuv a hundurd millin virgin spouses pushin up slums an high-tech factories from underneath the battlefields. Tis tuh the dead we can never repay yud mos jusly return, who rose an were crushed for yer dreamin, the manygod that manytimes gave ya generation. But I ain’t ready tuh let ya go jus yet. So get up. Get up. I said GET THE FUCK UP! And c’mere and give us a hug and give us a peck on the cheek and give us a drag on yer spliff. I know how beat up an used up an ugly ya are and yer only visible when I ain’t right- minded. But tis senses that matter, tis vision an touch. I cudden do either if I cudden with you. I cudden love nothin if I cudden love you.

Hope by Dave Lordan from The Stinging Fly, Summer, 2011

#Hope #Poem #inspiration #dave lordan