All posts tagged: Kevin Higgins

“One Has To Admire His Ability As A Poet” by Kevin Higgins

One Has To Admire His Ability As A Poet “I was struck by … his courage in speaking out to defend the memory of Charles Haughey” Vincent Woods, RTE website To defend the memory of Boris Yeltsin’s vodka bottle. To take money from both the late Benito Mussolini and, when pragmatism demanded it, those who spat on him when he was safely hanging upside down outside an Esso station. To put in the proper context of realpolitik as practised in parts of County Wexford the late Father Fortune’s harem of boys. To share a Ouija board with President Duvalier while supping rum from the skull of an infant who was always going to come to this because, in the words of W.H.Auden, ‘poetry makes fuck-all difference’. To share a roast leg with General Amin and not mind which of his enemies was being eaten. To recite even his longer poems to a musical accompaniment of Vladimir Putin twanging his jock-strap, like a rude balalaika. To roll around wrapped in the French flag with Marine Le …

“Treatise on Uselessness” by Kevin Higgins

Treatise on Uselessness after Rosita Boland Throughout my truly enormous life, I’ve never found a use for gypsies. When one decides to spend the night searching online for a worse deal on one’s house insurance, there’s never a gypsy about to help. Or when one advertises a vacancy for Associate Professor of English at Trinity there’s hardly ever a gypsy around to fill it. Or when the wedding of an Eritrean goatherd and his beloved is in crying need of a cruise missile, there’s never a gypsy available to press the required buttons and later tell the inquiry it was all a terrible misunderstanding. Despite millions ingested by social programmes, we’ve mostly failed to submerge gypsies in the internationally agreed system of an indecent day’s pay for a decent week’s work. Yet the state insists on making gypsies compulsory for those who’d rather never have to speak to one. What practical purpose does it serve for us to continue to try to absorb gypsies into what my late Popsicle -a one time Viceroy of Upper …

“How to Rid Yourself of Election Canvassers” by Kevin Higgins

  Ask them where they stand on the urgent need for a Greater Serbia. Tell them nothing has been right since the Treaty of Versailles, for which you hold each and every one of their kind personally responsible. Tell them the council’s been promising to chop down that tree for the past twenty five years, six months and two days; that you’re certain your next door neighbour is a Satanist, with dead animals buried under his patio. Start throwing down chicken feed to apparently non-existent hens, and wander about your front garden, chanting their preferred candidate’s name, as if in some sort of trance. If a lady over the age of eighty, or a child less than twelve, tell them: no thank you, you’ve given up sex for lent. If a middle aged male, come to the door panting and red faced, with a semi-clad woman strategically placed behind you, and say you have more urgent business to which you really must attend. Tell them you’re pretty sure your most intimate bits are an unusual …

‘Proposal To Erect Monuments’ by Kevin Higgins

  Proposal To Erect Monuments   In memory of poet, Frank Yammergob: a twenty foot likeness entrenched in bronze; the bits of old burger he kept in his beard left in for authenticity. Fastened to the dome of city hall giving his enemies the finger. Exact replicas atop every public building he paid not a cent towards. One laying permanent claim to the disabled parking space he liked nothing more than to nick. Others outside offices, factories, schools in which he never worked a day in what might loosely be called his life. The damage, a fraction of what his parade of ex-girlfriends cost the state in psychotherapist’s fees. Not to speak of government grants to bury those who shot themselves having read his thoughts on the necessity of rhyme in the comments section of the Connaught Trybewn website. In life, his one reader was a retired vice-principal who went about the place wearing most of a sheep; and told women he sat beside on buses the way Yammergob’s verses so perfectly scan calls to …

‘The Haircut’ by Kevin Higgins

The Haircut   I had it imported from Ancient Egypt, installed upon my skull by JobBridge slaves grateful to be allowed touch a scalp as potentially valuable as mine.   I can smell opportunity at a thousand yards, and in the blink of a synthetic eyelash, I’m off sniffing its however questionable arse. I’m Hillary Rodham Clinton without the young idealist in bad glasses phase.   I use Twitter as a place to practice graciousness, and would sacrifice my favourite granddad to the flames, and enthusiastically throttle both of yours, for the chance to have the Renga I wrote last week translated into Welsh.   I’m small but very well made, apart from my hunchback soul, which I keep under lock and key in a music box given me by my auntie, about whom the less said the better   KEVIN HIGGINS Kevin Higgins is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway City. He has published four collections of poems: Kevin’s most recent collection of poetry, The Ghost In The Lobby, was launched …