I'M IN REAL BAD NEED OF SOME REAL GOOD RELIGION

Anyone know of any good religion?
Would you please keep an ear out for some good religion?
Cos I'm in the market for some good religion.

In fact, I'm in bad need of some really good religion.
And that's telling the truth.
And I also mean it when I say 'really good religion'
I don't want any of that messy interfere with children religion
I don't want no kiss no bishop's ring religion either
But fuck me!
I am in the market for some liberation.
I'm a sure sales sucker for some high grade theology
Jesus wept
Hit me now
I am crying out for a little top drawer religion
Uncut
I don't want your adulterants
In fact
I don't want your castles
I sure don't need your sacraments
And I won't be wearing those robes
But can I make it any clearer?
I Want Some
GOD
DAMN
Theology
THEOLOGY NOW
Yeah.
Sure.
The sunshine helps
It really really really does.
And for that I am eternally grafeful.
Oh but you have no idea how a little bit of pure theology would be real dandy too.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
A little high mercury seaside water hose 8mm sandy Robinson's Barley exotic salty ham female dam bursting bouncey castle rounders cousins sorta theology.
That sorta theology!
You know exactly the sort of theology I mean.
Just a little little little little little hit of that
A little hit
A little bit
of
that sweet
RELIGION.
Then
All
Will
Be
Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever
So
Dandy
For
A
While

I LOVE THE INTERNET/ READING/DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL/CORNER NOTE CAFE

I'll be doing a gig at the Dalkey Book fair, June 15th 5pm at the Corner Note Cafe where I will be reading and talking with legendary literary Ivan Mulcahy. I am told that some other foreign correspondent is looking for a little limelight. Some geezer called Robert Fisk. Whoever he is. Then there's some writer who seems to be robbing most of my identity. Kevin Barry. Should have taken that lad out at 18 summers. Some other pokey nosed journo and bugger of bugging presidents called Carl Bernstein. There's an Anne Enright. She rings a bell. But jesus - your head would be wrecked keeping with all this crew. They all write things.

On the subject of writing things and wrong things, listen to me growl.

Listen to me bitch.

Just wasted 40 quid entering some Fish poetry competition judged by Paul Durcan.

Some scam artist in Cork.

Didn't even make the long list.

That's what I get for being fool enough to be giving money away to that class of carry on.

Big big boo.

Fuck it.

Let's look at pretty pictures.

By Gary Coyle

Ivan Mulcahy and myself flanked by Brian Barrington and Fiona Cummins

Vanessa and Fiona. Two dames.

I LOVE THE INTERNET LAUNCH UAC DUBLIN MAY 8 PIX BY RICK BISSHOP

The Circus Has Hit Town

The book is now on sale.

For a mere fiver you will have the pleasure of the sound of neo-liberals being kicked repeatedly in the bollix.
You'll see light shone on sinister vulture capitalist scum.
You'll see bullies furious at incoming derision.
You will see fear and fun in a handful of words
No respect for the cowards and fools who let a gang of crack heads beggar the country for longer than the life expectancy of a home built under their alleged command.
You will hear hatred for those who betrayed this country.
You will hear a little laughter.
And a big scream on behalf of the 90%  whose lives hopes and futures have all been Priory Hall-ed.
From hunger strike to Priory Hall there'll be screams against our joke republicans.
There are no republicans.
We merely have sociopaths with varying degrees of house training.
And we got blueshirts of all hues.
We got anti abortion moralists desperate to keep their supply of unloved unwanted and unwatched kids.
We got the Iona Al Qaeda. Our own wannabe UKIP sinister bigots.
We got the Christo Taliban.
We got Ganley and his Teahadi crew.

WE GOT THEM ALL IN OUR SIGHTS.

AND WE GIVE THEM THE KICKING THEY DESERVE

This is a

ROAR

A roar to ensure the culprits - the 1% with its 9% lackies - do not get a moments' sleep for the rest of their despicable lives.

To those who robbed our dreams, a promise:
We will not let you sleep.

And count yourself lucky it is only words that are being thrown you.

Cos I see this poet fella has other ideas.


Burn down Tom’s cabin.
Throw away the trinkets.
We’re looking for scalps.
White man.
Red man.
Black man.
Yellow man.
Someone
Has.
Gotta.
Pay.


On the subject of pay, the book in all its mischief and wonder is yours for a mere fiver.
So please drop by and pick up a copy

http://itsapoeticalworld.com/book-shop/#!/~/category/id=4966008&offset=0&sort=normal

Do that now.

You'll enjoy it.

Kevin

WORDS ON MARGARET THATCHER

Woke up and there they were

Words

Wiggly weasely wondrous words

All with loads to say

Never a dull moment with words

Never stuck for a curse with words

Never short of a laugh with words

Fall in love with words

Let the hate roll with words

Whisper sweet nothing with words

When the show gets really desperate, pray with words
Apologise for all you have done wrong with words

Forgive me forgive me forgive me

Forgive me with words.
But we won't forgive her with words.
We'll tell that dead Baroness all she did wrong.

With words.

She'll get
No no no
Eulogy out of me.

With words.

Instead I'll go write a song.

With words.

I'll tramp the dirt down.
Just like Elvis said.

With words.

I'll tell fawning funeral generals they are just
Puffed up poppycocks.

With words.

I'll reopen the pits.

With words.

I'll give everyone their job back.

With words.

I'll refuse to take part in her dog eat dog world.

With words.

Darwinian silverback penny-pinched primate.

That woman's an ape.

May she be for hunting.

By Hutu Interahamwe. 

And I mean it

I Mean It With Words

GLORIOUS WORDS

Society's 

YEP
I'll say it again

Society's
Affable Handymen

Words

And all that you are deaf to

Maggie

Words

LOVELY FIRST REVIEWS - And a little rant on how we got here

I Love The Internet.
The book, or little circus as I prefer to see it, has just got its isbn number so I am told it is officially published.
So within a few days it should be uploaded for sale here
Was looking to see if I could get some nice promo blurb to advertise the book with.
Anyhow a review link had been sent to author Alan Glynn.
And just got this delightful account in return.

"In this collection, poet Kevin Barrington sings, serenades (chants, screeches, parps). He’s like a hungry, distracted coyote roaming the digital plains – with one eye on the circling herd of bullies, despots, third-raters and poltroons, and the other on that gorgeous sunset over there."

And then this rather lovely account from film director Lenny Abrahamson

"Kevin Barrington is an original to the seat of his pants, and the sound of his passionate, fearless, percussive voice and the acuity and verve of the mind that drives it are present in every morsel of this wonderful collection."

 Then we also just got a really nice one from Martina Devlin:

"What a vibrant, memorable, original collection. And what a gifted turn of of phrase Kevin has. Colour bursts from his words and does cartwheels all over the poems. He veers from satirical to playful to hard-hitting to tongue-in-cheek. There's rage in his work; and humanity, too - presumably the humanity is motivated by the anger."

So I reckon the promotional dictates of commerce have been met. And to seek any more advance press could be seen as a craven search for adulation.

So perhaps it is time to get on with the show.

And let's see if we can pitch poetry into the face of a recession.

I'll let you know when they have uploaded the shop window.



All not bad though given that the show only sprang into being in December.
Once delightful Declan Ganley started throwing his legal/financial ire at me.

Then came the offer of publishing the book as a gesture of support.

What can you say to such an offer?

Ah the fun of those witch burning winter nights.

And out of darkness.

We got delight.

What chance of a sign of the spring?

The wind is blowing from the east.
And it's fierce cold.
She said with determined death defying determination
to the equally defiant grey male beside.
Flashing silver educated lucky in their decent Terenure stride.
And good on them.

But nobody fed me
My defiance today.
And listen here.
I got the Solzhenitsyn shivers.
Genuinely. 
I got that Stalin dread.
I got Dostoevsky horrors.
Man.
I got Gogols in my head.

It's so fucking Siberian.
God damn it.
It's so Artic around here.
I could really do with some sunshine.
Sted of this blood soaked below zero lithuathian nationalist affair.

Sweet mother of jesus
Sweet mother of jesus
I'm the last to talk of the weather.
But what chance of a sign of the spring?
What chance of a sign of the spring?