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

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