I Love The Internet_
Published by Political World Publications, February 2013 (Contact: C. Flower - email email@example.com) Editor: C. Flower Design and layout: Herman Vanaerschot - IJsbreker Illustrations: Michael Rynne, Bruce Ryder, Jason Michael McCann Cover design: Mark Shanley Cover photograph: Syra Trek - ‘Glastonbury’ YouTube: ‘I Love the Internet’ Steve Courtney and Lorcan Finnegan Audio files: Mark, Gerry and Noel at Beacon Studios e-booked by People in Need - http://www.people-in-need.com All images and photographs copyright of the original artist or photographer All rights reserved Copyright: Kevin Barrington 2013 “I love the Internet”, “Interference” and “The Reservation” were first published on itsapoeticalworld.wordpress.com <http://itsapoeticalworld.wordpress.com> in 2012.
I Love The Internet Kevin Barrington
Contents Dedications The Reservation
De Tocqueville Came to Tea
Van Gogh is Such a Sneaky Painter
Cambodia’s Rock Star King
Daddy’s Cooking Crystal Meth in the Barna Shed
I Love the Internet
Afterword Biographical Notes
read by Kevin Barrington De Tocqueville Came to Tea
Van Gogh is Such a Sneaky Painter
Dedications To Eileen for being such a total dote. And Cathal for having the bad luck of getting me in the deal. To the whole Barrington crew and captives - Don, Eileen, Kathleen, Niall, Brian, Oisin, Fiona, Oscar and Vanessa - for being such relentless fun. Vast grat to publisher and editor of these words and main man at Politicalworld.org, C. Flower. And all the Political World kids who did the ‘comrade’ gig with aplomb. Ephilant, 5intheface, Fluffy, Shaadi, Spectabilis, Eamo, Musashi, Paddy Joe, Dr Five, Bernadette. And Riposte who offered a hand when I deserved a slap. Of course Sam Lord too for keeping the pesky kids off the lawn. Lapsed, Toxic and all the others. To special agent, ‘dynamo and sage’ Ivan Mulcahy for defining love and loyalty. And Frank Rynne and his Moroccan sonic subversives, the Master Musicians of Joujouka, for helping heal sick minds. To scourge of fascists everywhere, the mysterious People Korps for always minding my six. To Anne Moran for being cool. Cliodhna for being apache. Liz for being the precious in capricious. And, perhaps Eda too, for bringing the computer back. Visuals - Ta to Jason for gonzo, Michael for dread, Bruce for wild digidelia, Herman for depth and Syra for celebration. Thanks to Steve Courtney, Lorcan Finnegan and Mark Shanley helping me sing. And to Noel, Mark, Gerry and Tara @ Beacon Studios for keeping me in tune. If I have forgotten anyone, it’s really not my fault. You know I’m really grateful. Just the medical treatment I’m on at the moment has truly goldfished my mind. Hopefully something brings a smile herein. And hopefully the goodies win.
Kevin Barrington Dublin Feb 2013
The Reservation Poetry don’t need no reservation. Rich seam of adjectives. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But we all know where the buffalo roam. And it ain’t in no reservation. Neat. Defined. Oh so genteel. When so much depends. On the cavalry call. The bugle. That tells you. It’s time. To go apache. On the gig. 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.
— 1 —
Walpurgisnacht Halloween. Musty, cordite, cancerous. Explosive ghoulish days. Rollercoaster shrieked nights. Way, way north of Walpurgisnacht Sweating. Fever. 48 hours. All of Virginia’s sheep. Day of dead volcanic ride. Same. Eternal train of same. Same slept rooms. Same. Shame. Decades, continents. All. Same. Bamboo, rattan, straw. Same Bangkok, Singapore, Phnom Penh, Penang. Same. Apartments, guest house, hotel, Hong Kong cell. Same. Fan whipping remorse repetition. Same. Heat. More heat. Same. Regret sewer waft. Same. Torture. Habitual. Torture. Same. Always the insult of diarrheoa. Same Outside firework die hard. Ceasefire. Coffee safely table. Phone. Mockingly mute. But. Hark. Hark. A call! Finally. Well. What’s done is done. And soon grinning ‘Frank’. Downs two mobiles. And two glasses of red. Palm wine fast. Now fire is lit. Ghosts at bay. Consciousness away On the home run. Rush. Busy. Busy. Rush all in vain.
— 3 —
“Do you cook on it?” “We cook on them in my village,” says Nigerian Frank. Then with mobile ring he’s off to Eddie Rockets. Leaving me with TV talks of default. Rush. We’re all in a rush. It’s all in the rush. “We cook on them in my village.” Fireworks. Trick or treat? Who the fuck knows?
— 4 —
— 5 —
Clam Fell in love with a cat. Nobody told me she was a clam. She was Tom and Jerry all in one. But nobody told me she was a clam. She didn’t slink away in a backyard embrace. Down amongst the trash bags. No clawed polythene. No cracked egg shells. No pierced teabags. No. She just closed down.
— 7 —
De Tocqueville Came To Tea This one goes out for Mark Malone
Acid Brecht spectacle. Narrative frontier splendour. West gone wild. Neo-con to hubris Cracked out of control.
Disaster capitalism Dandied up de Tocqueville Primate. Brute. Jackboot Yes. Yes. Yes. One dollar a box. Tea. Ten cent cheaper than London town. You hear. London town. And they look on us as savages. Old Europe. Soiled in socialism. Foul. Foul. Foul. ‘Those Jews are biologically different’ And let’s ‘Sterilise the Roma’ But hark Tea is served
— 9 —
Tea? Tea! Do I hear Tea? Where’s my bun? Lovely ass I’ll sue it.
But yes. Tales of tea. We got it safely to Henry Jackson How the cups clinked. In Boston. Eastern Seaboard. Brahmins What the fuck are they? Sounds immigrant to me. Sea. Salt. Fresh Air. Capt on deck. Males in womb. Fifty men overboard. Ten down with scurvy. Five shot for sedition God damn. The threat of sedition. God. Allah. Whatever. Oh so liberal. Libertarian. Libertas Yes. But they made it Hell!
— 10 —
Hell in Helmand. Ooooh. Yes. You know what they say? You can rent an Afghan. But you can’t buy one. But even towel heads need to talk. Don’t they Bopp! The money is zipping through the air. Zipping. No need for kevlar. Bullets are so last century.
Zipping. Zip. Zip. Zip Zing. You have to be fast. Faster than faster. Communications.
— 11 —
The future’s communications. They bring vast wealth. Wealth. Wealth. Wealth And, of course, freedom. Yes. They bring freedom too.
Wedgy wealth Dodgy freedom and Always always always always always The Bloody Threat Of Sedition
Five shot for sedition. Or was it six? Don’t they understand the need for cheap tea?
Those God damn seditioners. You really need to watch out for them. You really need to watch out for them.
— 12 —
— 13 —
(The Fiscal Compact Treaty)
Once upon a time back in the dour day. Wannabes called cops on contraceptive machines. And failed marriages sought vodka. A queer got beaten up Banged too. Gay was semiotics. And Kenny cutting edge. U2 were out of control. Priests wild with abandon. Where a million took to the Pope’s park. And the ‘cool kids’ took to Galway. Where milk bottles rained fire. And funerals fed slaughter.
When even Holyhead was intoxicating, EU shimmered erotic liberation. Borders. We’ll slip through them. Fuck them all. And booze ballads too. Give me French. Sex in a mini skirt. ‘Liberté’ More even more ‘Fraternité’ The days. Phew.
— 15 —
Then more of them. Until They got long. As they do. The skirts too. Then all a suddenly French was German. The exotic... accountancy. And flesh that caressed Mediterranean breeze Now pinched pennies with frozen Nordic frowns. And somewhere along the lawyered road. Into the spelling of ‘Equality” (Without asking me. What about you?) someone slipped ‘Austere.’
— 16 —
— 17 —
Van Gogh is Such a Sneaky Painter
Terrified I Stood As the loud young American poked. Jabbed Finger at Arles tree “See” Jab Sweat “See” Relentless. Museum surreal No guards No alarms NOT YET Don’t mess with art. In France. Panic. “Yes” I say “Yes” I acknowledge “I do” “YES” Phew. Satisfied. He turns. With
— 19 —
Order Has Been Restored Certainty
But There will be no confusion. No ambiguity. So still gesticulating at trembling canvas. He smugly mouths to Kevin shivering in cultural conflict High Noon Sun ‘Van Gogh is such a sneaky painter.’
‘Van Gogh is such a sneaky painter.’ Sneaky. Indeed. Yank in Jeu De Paume No-one’s fool.
Order under attack. So many decadent tropes. God damn that Dutch Jihadi. The duplicity of this Old Europe.
— 20 —
Give me Iwo Jimo for Art
The New American Century Will not be Subverted By Tricks by *Spot the hidden faces in the Arles trees*
Sneaky sneaky sneaky. Very VC Charlie Poor Van Gogh Sneaky sneaky sneaky. Very ‘Surrender Monkey’ Poor Van Gogh
Poor poor Vincent Poor Van Gogh
— 21 —
Woman’s Heart Curmudgeon alert! Fortune let prevent a picnic. So instead of alight to Tindersticks. Or going winter-defying mad. A Woman’s Heart.
No electric. Only a woman. Indeed.
But listened to Dolores Keane. Who was pure festival. And that was enough.
So with ‘no-one is callin’ me a misogynist’ pride. I walked the Navy / Notre Baghdad streets Of the Gathering Dublin Until Safe home.
— 23 —
Cambodia’s Rock Star King You read Philip Gourevitch’s piece on Cambodia’s King Norodom Sihanouk in The New Yorker And you just know that Mr Gourevitch doesn’t know who he is talking about. It is obvious he has never met King Sihanouk. In person. Cos Gourevitch is a bright person. And had he met Sihanouk we’d know about it. Cos Sihanouk tends to make an impression on people. This is no boasty, braggy, access thing. It’s just because Sihanouk was a pretty unique act,
Just look at all the profiles: The boy-king, pampered, mercurial, playboy, erratic, Oriental, artistic and all the saffron robed exotica. Everyone struggling to deal with the fact, to articulate in some way, that Sihanouk was the real deal. Cos Sihanouk was the real deal. “The Fantasy of King Sihanouk.” That’s what the New Yorker says. And that is actually what Gourevitch seems totally ignorant of or oblivious to. Fantasy. Spectacle. Art. Sihanouk had no arms or money. He didn’t rape his people. He wasn’t a kelptocrat. He worked for his supper. A scam artist maybe. But an artist. He hustled on behalf of Cambodia. Not always perfectly. But let’s take the worst of what Gourevitch throws at him: Distorting quite a few facts along the way, the big accusation is that Sihanouk is largely responsible for the Khmer Rouge’s genocidal rule.
— 25 —
But had he checked, Gourevitch would have easily seen that history is already robbing him of the potency of that polemic. Julio Jeldres, Sihanouk’s biographer, tells us of Sihanouk’s expressing his concerns about the Khmer Rouge to Chou Enlai in 73. Sihanouk was seeking support to neuter them. But Chou Enlai had the Gang of Four to worry about. And the Yanks were not listening. The Yanks! The New Yorker piece is written as if the Americans played no role. There is no sense that the post Killing Fields Khmer Rouge occupied the UN seat down the road. And no sense of the pressure that was put on Sihanouk to deal with them. Pressure. Sihanouk is a lesson in a man who dealt with pressure. He had a lot thrown at him. Even for one born a God-King A collision of centuries, superpowers and virulent ideologies. He dealt with them all. Mao to Mitterand, Tito to Nehru, Ceaucescu to Ho Chi Minh, Nixon to de Gaulle. All. With Cambodia’s well being as his aim, all Sihanouk had at his diplomatic disposal was spectacle. The Fantasy of King Sihanouk. Pure Fantasy. Think Jagger at Altamont singing Sympathy For The Devil. Then think amateur hour. Cos that’s what it was compared to this 89 year king’s never-ending tour. And despite being born to absolutism. And the country’s history of it. And the region’s propensity for it. Sihanouk had a real appreciation of the artifice of what we now call human rights. Here’s a senior Red Cross Official who had dealings with him. With the Khmer Rouge’s Ieng Thirith. And with Hun Sen. “The only one who has listened and then delivered in terms of Geneva Conventions and all that jazz, was him,” the Red Cross official said, speaking of Sihanouk.
— 26 —
“With him we did at least release all political prisoners that were (known to be...) in jail when the SNC took over,” he added, referring to the Supreme National Council, the reconciliation grouping of Cambodia’s warring factions pending the outcome of UN brokered elections. And yet Gourevitch laughs at Sihanouk’s belief that history had no place for dishonesty and lies. “It seems impossible that Sihanouk really believed that,“ Gourevitch wrote at the end of his New Yorker piece. But it’s entirely possible. Cos Sihanouk knows history will be kind to him. He’ll get kudos for the hours telling the peasants what Mao or Tito had just said to him. Way out there. Where he was only thing that came from the sky that didn’t bring death. A one man shock and awe band. Helicopter largesse in a water buffalo world. Norodom Sihanouk. Samdech Euv. Respect. You were. Pure. Rock star.
— 27 —
Interference Diary of an illness. So desperately needed. My battle with Fear, cancer, baldness, bad breath, death. Whatever you’re having yourself. Oh so brave. And not even a breast to lose. But let’s fess up. This one is not for you. It’s for me. Not just throwing shapes at fear. Puckin words. Cos nothing is remembered. The last time round. Unsuccessful Blank. Dumb. Mute. Just visceral electric howl. DNA Dylan. Atonal. Protest Ghostly imprint.
— 29 —
But now the comeback tour. So here we go. We’re here to go. Whistling in the wind. Spitting in the gale. Down dark boreens. With desperate ‘dia dhuit’ Conas atá tú ? Conas atá tú ? Not very well. Since you ask. Been a lot better. But there you are. A lesson in. Whatever. Interfering? Interferon. Here we go. Here to go. Conas atá tú ?
— 30 —
— 31 —
Jason Michael McCann
Social Media. Social. Media. This Week’s ‘Repetitive Beats’
Hey You Pesky Kids Get Off My Lawn
— 33 —
Daddy’s Cooking Crystal Meth in the Barna Shed Daddy is a financial reporter With a national daily Did Daddy help expose the bankers that beggared us? No. No. He didn’t. Cos. Cos Daddy Is Cooking Crystal meth In The Barna shed.
Daddy is a copywriter in an ad agency. Did Daddy devise the scam they call The Gathering? No. No. He didn’t. Cos. Cos Daddy Is Cooking Crystal meth In The Barna shed.
— 35 —
Daddy is an unemployed poet. Did Daddy write the wrong that ails us? No. No. He didn’t. Cos. Cos Daddy Is Cooking Crystal meth In The Barna shed.
Daddy is a house husband Did Daddy get kicked out of home? Yes Yes He did. Cos Cos Daddy Is Cooking Crystal meth In The Barna shed.
— 36 —
Enough Now Cos Cos I Gotta go. Go Cook Crystal Meth In The Barna shed.
— 37 —
Crack 70,000. Gone. In a week. Crack. Actually. A crack. Was selling the gaffe. Not quite breaking even. A big improvement. On borrowing to bail. Then last week. A bidding war. It’s war. Baby. Suddenly up 70.000. All dandy. Hands in air. Wheeeeeee Capitalist roller-coaster. Enter the surveyor. A crack. Crack fluency required. Enter my surveyor. We’re looking at 10,000. Fine. But crack ‘s now a sobering force, Sobering. The purveyor of madness and rage? So into equity’s duplicity. Rode my 70,000 Plus 800. The cost of. My lesson in crack.
— 39 —
For Jason Roberts with thanks
Laughter. Give it a blast. Snort it. Jack it. Freebase it. Up the nose. Up the bum. In the groin. Sell the wedding ring. Hit the pawn shop. Lie to those you love. Laughter. 100% pure hilarity. You know you want to. Crack a gateway grin. Go on Laughter. Give it a try. It’s Soul Addictive.
So tell us a joke That isn’t me.
— 41 —
I Love The Internet I love the internet. Opium to De Quincey Sin to Milton Congo to Conrad Aran to Synge
I love the internet Castles to Shakespeare Deceit to Le Carré Dublin to Joyce Market place to Chaucer
Did we say ‘Daffodils to Wordsworth?’ We couldn’t forget that. Or mounted jihad to Tennyson Or the weird wild wonder of the whole god damn show to Dylan
I love the internet
Wild, lewd, bawdy, bullying, smelling of cats. Cranks, crank, meth, conspiracy, snipers, knoll. Fascists made cartoon on ripe digital soil. Erudite waltzing with trite. In eternal ballroom.
— 43 —
Dedicated skiers on seas of trivial loon. Self help soma screaming thinning tv hair repair. And always the smiles of the filippino brides And promises of untold nigerian riches. Flashing wheel spinning ace poker squared You Have Been Chosen But Shhhhhhh Somewhere down there in the fly fishing section the first faint whispers (If ears are right) of hushed talk of bold revolution.
I love the internet
The sheer dull scintillating infantile anarchy of it all.
â€” 44 â€”
Boisterous Brueghel medieval market. Futuristic Middle Ages Directed by Friar Tuck. And offset, whispers of Robin lurking in wood. I love the internet. Cos it’s ours.
— 45 —
Story Tellers Fuck it. Musicians get applause.
So. Blessed are. The Story. Tellers.
— 47 —
Afterword Kevin Barrington’s ascendants may throw some light on the passion, grace and humour which animate the powerful rhetoric of these startling new poems. This poetry packs both playful and political punch, lashing out at the intolerant and the unjust with militancy and mischief. On Kevin’s mother’s side, his great uncle Harry Boland was a 1916 veteran, a leader of the Irish Volunteers and an oath bound member of the revolutionary secret society, the Irish Republican Brotherhood. He was murdered by Free State forces in a hotel in Skerries in 1922. On his paternal side, a great uncle was Brendan Bracken, Winston Churchill’s main confidant and UK Minister for Information from 1941 - 45. Hiding his County Tipperary background, Bracken became Britain’s chief propagandist as the country faced down the peril of Hitler’s Nazi hordes. Ironically, Bracken‘s own father was, like Harry Boland, a Fenian. Perhaps these genes added to Kevin’s keen nose for spotting people, scenes and scenarios that just don’t smell right. This has led to the odd spat. Recently he was targeted in a rather hysterical media assault. Yet, wonderful things often grow from such deranged soil. Thankfully - as a direct result of the recent social media Salem - comes this collection of new poems. Barrington’s uncompromising poetic voice - playful, musical and mature - cocks a snook at old media’s darlings and hysterics. Whereas Woody Guthrie’s guitar killed fascists, Barrington wields Joycean Gatling word play and combines the absurdist abstraction of a Beckett with the street smarts of a Behan. The academic poetry of James Liddy and soul of the nation that Patrick Kavanagh laid bare is also evoked in this collection. People Korps February 2013
— 48 —
Biographical notes Kevin Barrington is an Irish copywriter and blogger, born in Dublin. He has also worked as a foreign correspondent and a UN volunteer. This is his first collection of poems. Bruce Ryder is an animator / illustrator who lives and works in Wicklow, Ireland. Jason Michael McCann is a Dublin preacher and the editor of Homophilosophicus blog. Michael Rynne studied design at College of Marketing and Design Dublin and sculpture at NCAD Dublin.
List of Illustrations Cover: photograph by Syra Trek – Glastonbury Cover Design by Mark Shanley (Frontispiece) Bruce Ryder - Black dandelion (The Reservation) Photo: Rockarchive.com - Boujeloud festival, Joujouka, Morocco (Walpurgisnacht) Bruce Ryder - Halloween
(Clam) Bruce Ryder - Crossbones
(De Tocqueville Came To Tea) Michael Rynne - Bombs Away
(Divorce), Michael Rynne - ‘I thought you loved me’
(Van Gogh is Such a Sneaky Painter), Bruce Ryder - Van Gogh
(Woman’s Heart), Bruce Ryder - Dolores
(Cambodia’s Rock Star King), Bruce Ryder - Neon King
(Interference) Michael Rynne - 7 Towers
(Social Media), Jason Michael McCann - Purveyor of Madness and Rage
(Daddy’s Cooking Crystal Meth in the Barna Shed) Bruce Ryder Barna Shed
(Crack) Bruce Ryder - Crack
(Laughter) Michael Rynne - Meditation
(I Love The Internet) Bruce Ryder - Dandelion
(Storyteller) Herman Vanaerschot - Boujeloud festival Joujouka
— 49 —