Alt-Write, poems by Miceál Kearney
Miceál Kearney; 38. Living and working on the family farm on the West coast of Ireland. Starting writing in 2001. Five years later his first poem was published. Since then he’s been published across Ireland, U.K, America and broadcast on the radio in Australia on Phoenix F.M. Read at various festivals including Cúirt, Ireland; The Pulse Poetry Festival, Brighton; The Green Mill Room, Chicago and the Vilenica Festival in Slovenia. Winner of various poetry grand slams including Cúirt, North Beach Nights’ and Baffle. Read as part of Poetry Ireland’s Introduction Series ’09. Doire Press published his debut collection; Inheritance in 2008. Arlen House published his second collection; The Inexperienced Midwife in 2016. He also writes plays and has had four of them staged. In-between writing and farming Miceál enjoys arguing with vegans on Facebook about the colour blue.
The Evolution of the Catwalk
Regularly up before the cock – ha,
all these years and it’s still a sin.
He was often in bed as I milked;
thinn’d turnips, cut hay:
an entire days work done
before breakfast. Then Mass.
I don’t know, all we had was
Sir and Ma’am. Please and thanks.
Timeout? That was the break
between beatings. A law is being passed
to recognise preferred pronouns.
I’ve asked the nurse to cis-splain,
I think that’s one of them.
But she doesn’t know either;
one of them foreign ones.
There’s no way the priest would’ve
allowed that sort of carry on.
Straight to Ballinasloe*.
*Reference to psychiatric unit
Anorexic obesity is all the rage and
Faggot doesn’t always stay in school.
Selfie, selfie on my wall: #, like
and signal boast Muh Feels.
But here I’m safe from all that –
where a skinny white dyke
and a fat black fag
rape culture in a designated
Lard-arse is meat-eater
while the carpet-muncher’s a vegan.
The white-man hater’s Atheist
and the other queer is Christian.
Zir is of the opinion that differs from zis.
Now answer me this, if you can.
I dare you; tell me: what gender
is the man and who’s the person of colour?
Here’s a tip. Do not commit the hurtful
war crime of assuming, please.
After you Rep Pill yourself
trying to figure it out
answers on a postcard
to the Kill Yourself Crèche.
I’ll even pay the postage.
Come back Father, please. I nostalgically
miss your humourless domination.
The Household fearing your every breath.
We murdered you out of survival
thinking it was for the best.
We’re at the point now of Babbling.
No longer is it just politicians
whose words are rigid as an eel
and clear as fog.
Good Friday, 2016 where on the cold
polished marble floor of living room
Hugh Mungus raped Zarna Joshi
while the remaining siblings gathered.
Cheering. Jeering. Blaming the other
side of the circle. She tried; desperately
stretching out her shrinking hands, frantic
to reason with both inflammable factions.
Imploring. Hoping. Begging. Bearing.
No one there thought to intervene.
Her screams were drowned by inaudible
hyperbole which was echoed and returned
more egregious – with every thrust and serve
a little bit of her disappeared. Static serenading
kept score. Love Love, Love Love…No verdict
saved Zarna from the slut shaming
that crucified her and after her Resurrection;
syllables were lost and one by one: words
literally meant nothing.
The police came knocking upon my door
they said they were not happy
with the Memes I’d shared
so in through my hall they charge.
“Praise Kek, would you like some milk?”
The Super steps in, shaking and shrills –
“You won’t understand
until you unlearn but it is my job
to ensure that no one gets hurt
over your problematic posts.”
I then called into question
the state of their faculties
only to be Richard Spencer-ed
for being a Nazi: I no longer
had rights then branded a Jew.
Too tall to touch: the Super stands
simply spinning their revolvers’ fist.
“So why, why, why do you do it then?
“Please, I beg, you won’t understand
I only speak Annunaki cuneiform.
I’ve seen more Channels lost
and Pages deleted. This is all I have
now that words have no meaning.”
The chamber was empty, “this time.”
Then billed me for damages to their boots.
So the Super marches off; proud
to patrol their Internet
while out in the Twitter-verse
in every comment section
the Great Meme War rages on.
On the morrow of that starkly
packed Presidential inauguration:
ten thousand million feminists
tried to out trump Trump.
They marched in the rain in Spain.
Marches at both Poles. Paraguay
to Uruguay: they marched right
across the Tropic of Cancer.
From Baltimore to Timbuktu
with banners and placards
some even brought cats.
I heard of marches in Mordor.
While the focus of their ire
simply sat in the Oval office
masturbating and not one sandwich
was made all day.
The Trans-Fox & the Bigoted Hound
We’d no idea, had we
how our genes would mature.
All those hours spent laughing,
chasing our tails to end up raging
from opposing sides at the sheep
centre in the abyss – using rabid diatribes
passionately aimed to soothe but landing
antagonistic in dogged ears finely tuned,
wounded by the other’s wolf whistle.
© Miceál Kearney