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Friday, June 27, 2008

Wtf?!

3 comments:

David Kennedy said...

This is presumably what JJ should have put in the Bloom breakfast scene instead of - if me memory serves - Mkgnao!

Mark Granier said...

You're right, it was 'Mkgnao!' (and also 'Mrkgnao!'). Not sure Wtf would have worked unless Bloom owned a texting cat (could have introduced the concept in Nighttown I suppose).

Background Artist said...

Hi dave, i have just got in from the bookstall a few hours ago, had dinner and am back boring, and i can feel it is going to be a marathon weekender...i go to Ledbury next week, to recite at the open mics, one a night in different gaffes and so am just winding up to failure, so this is just pre-bore preparation and will totally understand if it doesn't appear, cheers,

des

~

i am assuming you have no friends daithi, and that the cat is yr sole companion, apart from the many exciting colleagues and students from the University within whose warm pool of humanity, in the Humanities dept, you practice the sacred poetcraft in the numerous caring, supportive learning spaces yr very slinky cat-like single Dubliner way, far away from the heart of yr home, moving: effortless as when Phil was a hurricane of efficiency and the ruthless poetic misogynist grumpy git -- or was he?

Well, who cares first off Dave? not whiskers yr flat mate, the only company you have david, after clocking off and hurling yrself into the grim reality of that eastern seaport, in all it's briney loveable norf east typa grind.

Larkin dave, if you can top him, yizzer gagged and bagged, yr rep eternal and bumping grumpy gits to second place.

larkin, phil, phil L?

..well, first off he fell in to his time, reflected the zeitgeist, in a time before spandex and spandu ballet, a buttoned up pioneer in the jfk era,

phil, captured summat,
changing key/s

humanity, society

*i hear there is a secret
chord that David played
and pleased the lord

but you don't really care
for music do you*

only the total poetic fair
to speak as one and spell,

riff and yell, be Phil,
play larkin and inhabit

the daft sods head
see him as he was,

is and s/he of the mind,
still there with Bill

sidhe silly aul wee folk
off -- Noh theatrical

surge to toppin larkin
doin a number on the


on the reminiscence in print, doing a tone, dead as doornails, mister Concrete poetry's most eloquent retailer, you must have read it?

after i read it i knew i had been doing the right course, of going to write and recite every tuesday on the basement of Brogans, july 2004, gerry macnamara from Tallaght, specs, grey long hair, proper tallagh dub, no messin, and a lot of ale.

Few women apart from the first glorious summer of 04, my arrival coinciding with that of the trinity students from Miami uni, dave rothenburg whose house and all his papars (ooch) and terri carion (i think) in charge of 30 or so (mainly younger women) wanting only to experience the real poetry craic and culminating at a Meet the Beats night in Mother Redcaps when i first experienced the boss Byrne M west of us, mesmorise me with, what on paper, perhaps, i would have dismissed..perhaps not, but s/he was happy there below in the basement; the heavily male banter and heckling, a few regulars of varying dedication and mental illness, but still, a rag tag bag that united the night of the first Patrick Kavanagh Celebration at the Palace bar..


we all ended up back at God's house, so called due to his long ginger hair, beard and gnomic raiments of conical wooley hat and shapeless autumnal coloured mufti, and the poetry ran natural as the wind off Slievmore on a warm may night when the sidhe storms are attending the court of ultimate poetic fair play there, at the tip of it.

Yah, do larkin, he is ready for the chop dave, think of Cronin, what he did in the name of service to Poetic fair play, to hack and execute any rival, alive or dead, and in the process, wrote a the one masterpiece of prose which will support his A1 status in the pantheon of old school bruisers, paddy k and durcans, the lone single poet, no mates coz s/he aint no one's but ours daithi, and as long as we slink and whiskers loves us, you need only carry on the spiritual training david...a Monk dave, no women, two pints max and yr body a temple, that's how i live dave, a regular at the gym,

next to mister Viper, caught in the equipoise betwixt Rialto and Kilmainham, six two, dark hair, seven houses, multi millionaire, looking for casual intellectual intercourse with fellow male poets only, unless there are any s/he reading who are housed in the dome of women, not looney moo'ers like ooh, i dunno, ms X, who would like casual intellectual stimulation over lunch perhaps, must like very expensive gifts and numerous foreign holidays, as i am addicted to showering my wealth on my friends dave

and so if there are any men or women out there, who like the idea of total free Noh theatrics and Concrete poetry, please appear and let us know, otherwise i will send in a team of general operatives at my disposal, to kidnap dave's puss and auction the ransom off online, like they did with that rabbit...