Malachy Misshaps

Malachy Misshaps

Malachy Misshaps chews up Virginia and Pound just for scraps.
runs riot on Beckett hang a tree and just feckit
too loose for a neck in a noose
talks like a goose on a wire in fancy dress
streams of steaming consciousmess

Malachy has stepped in some, smelt some and heard some …..
what a delight no need for offence this line is the fence
that we’ve crossed and it is immense
O for the sake of the post just give me a roast
and duck out of modernity it’s not in the mail and crawls like a snail
towards a deadend , happens twice in a play nothing nice nobodadaday

There’s no Joyce in punning if you don’t have the cunning
for tea and Eliot rhymes with all of the literary crimes
of the green faced wan in a tiresome song about fog
Literary hog snorts like a princess on grog
so you better well pucker cos this guys no looker
though he hasn’t changed at all you would get more of a lyric in Bowie’s Berlin at a call
so the snot green sea can go and have a pee on Eliot’s namer that grew so much
waner that he became faber and sat in his ivory cager for a whole century

Up til your neck you will frown when all is drowned
sounds like the French proverbial disposal
of what you throw all out the on the heads of the masses it’s not molasses
you can wring out your washing but the stain is so shocking
how it lingers in titters throw it in with the kippers but all you got left is a stink
time for a new sink
Now this kind of soap is not made of hope
It’s got lime and it stings with an ascerbic ring
but you’ll feel so much cleaner when the pen of your own is the gleaner.
Shem and his sham friends built a wall for amends to keep aloft their dividends
like bankers and credit swaps throw their trotters in the slops
mixing up an unholy broth spooning incomprehensibilities
nonsensical non entities hung on the myth of Ulysees keeping busy the academees
Take a bow and a nobel prize there is no finn-again that will rise to the bait of literature’s end and its fate

Come on all my loonies and lovers, it’s not too late
Sharpen your nib good and true
release the yoke from this mule
tarred in feathers of those who dress up in others clothes
I am the boy who calls out that
the emperor has nothing on but his nose

Do you remember a spider laced tree in the sky?
Is it here we come to know why?
the ineffable now.
we are here somehow
our breath on our face becomes one
let us entertain what is true and not forget to pursue
a brain booked open by its fire
That is all that we desire

Patrick Hallinan

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem