Tuesday, December 26, 2017

A Rising Fall - 5 years old

My first novel published five years ago today. The first in a dystopian trilogy entitled CITY (my unfinished symphony)

A Rising Fall (City Book 1) "Live as you love."

Ten years after the blackout, a group of humans struggling to fight off a conscious famine, try to re-learn empathy to save humanity in an old industrial assembly plant.

In 3 days; feigned affection, deception and a black heart will take them to the repression of their own fears in search of New Utopia.

"In flavour it is a bit of a mix of Greg Egan’s Diaspora, Yevgeny Zamiatin’s We and the 2002 film, Equilibrium. As such, it is in good company......The plot is engaging and keeps you reading, with a successful “show-don’t-tell” technique that is often lacking in contemporary literature."
- Evie Kendal - Dark Matter Fanzine

Paperback - https://goo.gl/qyoqxs (Amazon)

Digital - epub, mobi, pdf
Barnes & Noble - https://goo.gl/WWUtJ1
Smashwords - https://goo.gl/yLYYdA

Read Online at ISSUU - https://goo.gl/FV6Frb

Take Risk and Take Care,

Monday, November 20, 2017

Done - The Inscrutable Mr Robot

Done ! 

My 15th novel 'The Inscrutable Mr. Robot' is finished. Last words have been written. The right ending should always come as a total shock but at the same time should come as little suprise. 

Hopefully I got this one right. 

Sure there's some rewrites to do but the blind walk is done; now it's just elaborating on what's already been written. 

Anyone who knows the misery and lonlieness of writing can attest to overwhelming joy and calm that comes from finishing a book; however fleeting it may be, this moment is the only reason I write.

Let's drink !

Take Risk and Take Care,

'Dark Existential Fiction'

Monday, November 06, 2017


Do your dirty peeping and poking here. Leave a cigarette butt, a footprint, or your guilty expression smeared on the glass.

Dark existential fiction that is just as rich in philosophy as it is strange and uncomfortable.
From the reclusive mind of Irish writer, C.SeanMcGee, fourteen novels that delve into the perverse and ever-lurking shadow of humanity: where all the more interesting stories take place.
When questioned on his own twisted and weirdly optimistic perspective of life, C.SeanMcGee merely replied,
“One must be a complete failure at life to any good at writing about it.”

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Amigo The Cat

A boy met a wolf on the way to school,
With a cat by its legs and one bloody tooth.
It's heart was rampant and it had a long empty stare,
So long it had no idea that the boy was even there.
You see there'd once been a struggle, the markings of a fight,
Enough blood had been spilled to take a dozen or so lives.
The boy asked the wolf: "What on Earth has gone on?"
And the wolf it replied; "I was wrong, I was wrong."
Its voice it was cold like the end of July,
For death and remorse were the shape of its eyes.
"Why now?" and "What the devil have i done?"
The wolf wept and wailed where it lay beneath the sun,
"Would you do the same thing if you got to again?"
Asked the boy to the wolf like a friend would a friend,
The wolf replied; "Sure, i probably would."
"But i'd feel worse in the end than i probably should."
"You never expect what went on today."
"And when it finally happens, you're taiken away."
"You lie there all stupid on the dirt in the sun."
"A simple mistake and it all comes undone."
"I know what you mean and i hope you fare well,"
"But mine will be worse if I am after the bell."
So the boy called the cat and they both walked away,
And the wolf died alone at the end of the day.

Sunday, October 08, 2017

Hope for the Day

It only occured to me yesterday that I know more people who have comitted suicide than have died from diease or old age. I'm a miserable bastard, that's no secret and I've had suicidal urges since I was 9. For the uniniciated, in the same way one has physical and psycological symptoms that define "God damn i'm hungry, better eat some lettuce" or "Fuck it's cold, better put on a sweater," those with clinical depression also become overwhelmed with physical and psycological symptoms and sensations, and just as the jumper is the clear solution to shivering arms, suicide is to episodes of severe depression. So, to those who are silently saying "I get ya, motherucker" take note from these fellas at Hope for the Day, this simple truth - It's Ok Not to Be OK

http://www.hftd.org/   - Hope For The Day  -  Visit their page

Peace, Love, and as always, Take Risk and Take Care,


Saturday, October 07, 2017


This house will out-live me
No matter how much I know
No matter how much I have done
This simple house of bricks will make a home for anyone
History itself is cast in stone
But not you or I, or anyone we know
All is forgotten except that which is known
Like the pyramids, the monuments, and my goddamned fucking home
Entropy ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Saturday, September 09, 2017

Life (a short poem)

"Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up.........Ahh shit."
"I fucked it up."

Life (a short poem) ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Mary, the Butcher of Salisbury:

Mary was a drunk,
and down on her luck,
But never was Mary a whore.
With a mouth like a gun,
and boy could it run,
She had every man on the floor.
Though her words they did slur,
It would never deter,
Her love for the drink and a tale.
Be it story or rhyme,
A sonnet or line,
She'd go at it hammer and nail.
And it's fair to be said,
That in truth she'd be dead,
Were it not for her gift of the gab.
For her life it was shite,
but the booze made it right,
and her words, they could pick up the tab.
You see Mary she lived with a cunt of a man,
An asshole that no-one could stand.
A bitter old prick,
As crass as was thick,
And who spoke with the back of his hand.
And Mary she wore all the bruises and marks,
On her face, her arms and her neck.
But the look in her eyes,
When she drank or reprised,
If you'd seen it, you'd never forget.
I can't quite describe it,
except only to say,
that no man was ever the same.
The moment they came to take her away,
With noone but Mary to blame.
You see her husband was found,
all bludgeoned and bound,
Floating in a bag in the sea.
And with a pint in her hand,
And too drunk to stand,
Old Mary was ready to plea.
"No contest, your honour,
for every drink,
and every word i have said.
But as for that prick,
I've no shame and no guilt,
In how he ended up dead."
And so she drank her last pint,
With the hangman in sight,
And the rest of us down by the stairs.
And she told us a fable,
The best she was able,
Considering her state of affairs.
And though history would remember,
Her violence and temper,
For us it was hard to forget.
The way she could drink,
and thoughts she did think,
the most remarkable woman I've met.
Mary the Butcher of Salisbury ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Tinder (or that one saturday in august)

A miserable old prick in a house made of sticks,
and the lady who smoked were a bore;
for both of them sat in the idleest of chat,
on a corner, in the cold, by a door.
One of them coughed, and the other one smiled,
but neither was getting along;
Not a thing to be said, not an inch or a mile,
not a story, a rumour, or song.
It wasn't until the man had been killed,
that the lady who smoked seemed to care;
for his body it lay in the shallowst grave,
on a corner, in the grass, by the stairs.
The nieghbour's complaints and the copper restraints,
and her heels were the worst of it all;
While the body of a man and her fingerprints can,
confirm she was partly at fault.
Tinder (or that one saturday in august) ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Are monsters real, daddy?

"Of course monsters have teeth. How do you think they eat children?"

a counsel with my son

Thursday, August 17, 2017

The Art of Letting Go (an impromptu discussion)

Of everything; and anything
To have ever been, to ever come, and to all which will one day come undone
Of everyone; and anyone
That ever was and will ever be; and to those that came undone.
Of clocks and candles; of time and age
Seamless is the transition; and nary a break in the day
Of ego and name; of pride and shame
On how you fucked, how you looked, and how fast you could run
All of which will either soon or have long since come undone
Of broken hearts and broken toys
And the pieces of which are all scattered on the floor
Of we and they; and of you and I
One of us is bound to come undone
Of love and the courage to suffer and yearn
Let your children leave you, no longer need you; and never return
Of being loved or living alone;
Whether walking on eggshells or the silence that fills up a home
Of being unheard of and forgotten; or of love that grows distant and cold
For all that you gave up or lost; and for that which you never will hold
Of me and my name.

The Art of Letting Go ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Wednesday, August 02, 2017

"Monday" - a poem or a short rant about life and death

I can feel that metal buckling
And I’m not sure where or when,
Maybe now or maybe a little further on down the line.
Well that bend she’s fast approaching
And you’re running short on time,
And don't you know as luck would have it, baby so am I.
So to all the girl’s I’ve kissed
And the friends with whom I’ve drunk and reminisced
It’s never easy – not when time keeps passing by
And the end ‘aint very fair
(It's) Not like we’re ready – we’re barely there
But that don’t mean this wasn’t a heck of a ride
To all I’ve loved
And all I’ve fought
And all I’ve learned
And all I’ve taught
I’m just so fucking grateful for having been alive.
And a second, a day, a week or a year
It’s all the same to me, my dear
I’m just so glad to have had you in my life
And to all the drunks and all my friends
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again
I’d fight for every one of you till the end
But I’m sober now, and I must reflect
For Time she's come to collect her debt
I was never much good at cards or making a bet
I laid it all on every hand
Said “Fuck the rules, I don’t understand”
For as long as I remember I guess I did quite well
But at the dead of night, she’s at my door
As pretty as a flower and as mean a whore
And I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t just a little bit scared
But death she comes for one and all
When you’re half way through a book or in the middle of a song
And all that you can do is………

Monday ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Genesis - a short story on fatherhood and the death of the artist

The father looked at his child. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked. The child responded with a crooked smile. "Your patience, your virtue, your compassion, and your servitude but not your potential; you can cut that bit off, I like you just how you are."

genesis ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Happy Birthday

You shall be seen only by those you have never met, heard by those of whom you have not spoken, and understood by those you do not know. In companionship we find then, solace; a kind of umbrage or abscondence from one's self.

Take Risk and Take Care,


Tuesday, May 30, 2017


a yellow breasted bird
on an old fruit tree
fluttered its wings as it left
what a sight to be seen; for a man such as thee
on the tip of his very last breath

alas nothing grew in the garden again,
not a flower; not even a weed
nothing but a stone, and a wreck of a home
and the roots of an old fruit tree
but a day it would come, when as yellow as the sun, fell a feather from a little bird's breast
for above it did flutter; with no quiver or stutter
where the man and the tree lay at rest

suicide ₢2017 c.seanmcgee

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Pé na Cova (one foot in the grave)

"Why wait?" I said. "Why hesitate? "What good is one day from another?"
You just laughed, and slapped my back;
"That's a good one," you said. "That's a real good one, my brother."
And so we drank to all our worries,
And we drank to all the blues.
And the sun it rose in a miserable light,
As we drank to all of the truths.
The truths we had forgotten,
And those we'd rather forget.
To the ones which proclaimed us a villains,
And to those which we owe a great debt.
And so we drank to the end of times,
To love and its inevitable end.
And we stumbled off home in the wee hours of dawn,
Just a prick and his miserable friend.

One Foot in the Grave C.SeanGee ₢2017

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Dark Existential Fiction by C.SeanMcGee

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