Reading From Book of Dark Blue

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after Leo Varadkar, W.B. Yeats, & Enda Kenny

We are for the Ireland that rolls

laughing out of its bed every morning, those

whose national anthem is the alarm

clock exploding on the bedside locker and it still dark;

 

who, even August bank holidays, are

in the shed before five a.m.

fashioning origami former Garda

commissioners, or writing violin concertos in praise

of the Little Sisters of the Bon Viveur,

Blessed K.T. Whittaker and anyone else

who got up ridiculously early

to make this country what it

allegedly isn’t.

 

We represent those who know should they fall

up a ladder, or for some other reason –

be it insanity or baldness –

be unable to properly function,

we in government will do nothing

except, if they’re lucky, repeatedly

knee them in the nasty bits.

 

We whose ancestors have eaten

the still throbbing heart of General O’Duffy

(or at least what we thought was his heart)

now see leaflets tumbling through respectable letter boxes

in which cretin and comedian crow their gutless song,

their arguments a bladder bloated with animal blood.

 

We say, down the disposal pipe

with all these and their cries

of avarice and failure,

those who engage in wilful wastage of water

by sitting there all day – the jets

fizzing up their crevices –

in Jacuzzis given them

by the tax payer.

 

Drown them in the tank

and bill them for their own extinction,

for they are weasels who’d drink

of your chickens until they’re dry.

 

We are for people who look both ways twice

when crossing the road

and remember where they left their keys.

 

KEVIN HIGGINS