When Kids Are Left Alone With Technology

When Kids Are Left Alone With Technology

Poetry, a man's job?

Despite the tiredness, struggled out to an open mic session last night in the Feile bar in Wexford street. Was a great night, Uiscebot inspired more of his pin dropping silences. Various rocked and brought the house down - particular appreciation for the donkey schlong references... (sorry Various!). The other poets there were excellent, I really enjoyed their performances. But Various did notice after a while that she was the only reader of the female kind. So, I felt inspired. Below is my vitriolic response to the gender imbalance, written in the style of the majority of last nights offerings.

Wednesday, Wexford Street.



Shaggy hair, greasy mop

performance poets know what's what

monochrome, monotone, frenzied drone,

tell it like it is,

Damn it, its dramatic. Get it?

hold the mic, tight, bend over double

trouble us with your point of view

Who? us, the adoring rabble,

scrabble to hear how it is.

fifty verses, no A4's, rewrite the laws

of what's acceptable.

its prose this poem that doesn't rhyme

tarnish the shine of iambics cause

pause in all the right places -

have us in the palm of your hand

pace and prowl,

scowl.



But its a bit xy round here, why?

Where are the women, in the kitchen

flinching?

As their men declaim.

it takes a man to really scan

The only one who

can tell the message?

Spell it out, idea tout,

anyone buying or selling

yelling.

whispering into the phallic prop

non-stop for five minutes flat.

Got it all down pat.

slap and clap the messianic poet

Doesn't he just know it.



but I've got a thing or two to say

if i was bothered to unleash it

on my brothers.

Shudders at the thought

its not all fluffy kittens, pretty mittens

Fixtures and fittin's.

listen here, I'm not a militant,

a touch paper filament looking for sparks.

But you ignite my ire,

Inspire my spite, stiffen the sinew for the fight.

When we're silent and you're complicit.



A remedy, a plan of action

Next week i'll stand, face to the man

paper in hand



and scream -



Sod the lot of you, swaggering apes

throwing your shapes.

Crusaders in your capes, don't

Make me laugh.

You've got your big ideas, free as the birds.

Change the world, you're deep and profound

Return to lost and found,

I'll tell you

what's what, me and my synaptic melting pot



breath in breath out,

repeat,

replete,

then stop.

Oh, and by the way, I do actually really like blokes, not their fault if they disappear up their own arse every now and then... :o)

Poetry, a man's job?

Despite the tiredness, struggled out to an open mic session last night in the Feile bar in Wexford street. Was a great night, Uiscebot inspired more of his pin dropping silences. Various rocked and brought the house down - particular appreciation for the donkey schlong references... (sorry Various!). The other poets there were excellent, I really enjoyed their performances. But Various did notice after a while that she was the only reader of the female kind. So, I felt inspired. Below is my vitriolic response to the gender imbalance, written in the style of the majority of last nights offerings.

Wednesday, Wexford Street.

Shaggy hair, greasy mop
performance poets know what's what
monochrome, monotone, frenzied drone,
tell it like it is,
Damn it, its dramatic. Get it?
hold the mic, tight, bend over double
trouble us with your point of view
Who? us, the adoring rabble,
scrabble to hear how it is.
fifty verses, no A4's, rewrite the laws
of what's acceptable.
its prose this poem that doesn't rhyme
tarnish the shine of iambics cause
pause in all the right places -
have us in the palm of your hand
pace and prowl,
scowl.

But its a bit xy round here, why?
Where are the women, in the kitchen
flinching?
As their men declaim.
it takes a man to really scan
The only one who
can tell the message?
Spell it out, idea tout,
anyone buying or selling
yelling.
whispering into the phallic prop
non-stop for five minutes flat.
Got it all down pat.
slap and clap the messianic poet
Doesn't he just know it.

but I've got a thing or two to say
if i was bothered to unleash it
on my brothers.
Shudders at the thought
its not all fluffy kittens, pretty mittens
Fixtures and fittin's.
listen here, I'm not a militant,
a touch paper filament looking for sparks.
But you ignite my ire,
Inspire my spite, stiffen the sinew for the fight.
When we're silent and you're complicit.

A remedy, a plan of action
Next week i'll stand, face to the man
paper in hand

and scream -

Sod the lot of you, swaggering apes
throwing your shapes.
Crusaders in your capes, don't
Make me laugh.
You've got your big ideas, free as the birds.
Change the world, you're deep and profound
Return to lost and found,
I'll tell you
what's what, me and my synaptic melting pot

breath in breath out,
repeat,
replete,
then stop.

Oh, and by the way, I do actually really like blokes, not their fault if they disappear up their own arse every now and then... :o)

ZZZzzzzzz

You can measure the quality of sleep Domestic Oubliette is getting by the amount of blog posts I post. Nothing new in a week - you can practically see the bags under my eyes. Too tired to even type. I have no idea why I am so tired, I get eight hours a night. Baby Oubliette sleeps better than I ever did, so that's not the problem. Mr Oubliette has finally learnt where the loose floor board is, so he hasn't woken me up when he finally comes to bed at night (after cleaning the house, doing the laundry and making the kids sandwiches) in quite a while.

The wonderful DramaQueen has given me a few potions which I am going to give a whirl tonight.

Wish me luck. The Oubliesphere needs it -these posts are going to stay this boring until I feel rested!

ZZZzzzzzz

You can measure the quality of sleep Domestic Oubliette is getting by the amount of blog posts I post. Nothing new in a week - you can practically see the bags under my eyes. Too tired to even type. I have no idea why I am so tired, I get eight hours a night. Baby Oubliette sleeps better than I ever did, so that's not the problem. Mr Oubliette has finally learnt where the loose floor board is, so he hasn't woken me up when he finally comes to bed at night (after cleaning the house, doing the laundry and making the kids sandwiches) in quite a while.

The wonderful DramaQueen has given me a few potions which I am going to give a whirl tonight.

Wish me luck. The Oubliesphere needs it -these posts are going to stay this boring until I feel rested!

The Oubliette Poor List

Spare a thought for the billionaire
with his worthless stock and share
Now without a dime to spare
Oh, the poor poor billionaire.

The Oubliette Poor List

Spare a thought for the billionaire
with his worthless stock and share
Now without a dime to spare
Oh, the poor poor billionaire.

Here we go again...

So, how'd the reunion go you ask? Well...

1)there was much wanky business card swoppage...
2)no one had changed much at all...
3)(except) it appears everyone has come out since we left college...
4)Very little reproduction has been going on (which is reasonably explained by point 3)
5)but maybe people were a little nicer than they once were...


Only one of my plethora of arch-Nemesis's turned up. I was polite. Fixed my best 'I still really dislike you even though its fifteen years on, and no, that blonde hair does not suit you' smile. Thankfully most everyone else seemed to feel the same way and she fecked off again pretty quickly.

I drank Guinness, chatted to everyone a little. Found myself bonding with the Gamers, being a little bored by the die-hard Fine Gael / Fianna Failers. But overall, pleased I'd turned up.

But there seems to be a bit of a theme going on at the moment...This whole looking back business is catching it seems. What with recessions and IRA re-emergence Mr Oubliette was prompted to ponder - 'What, is it the 80's again?'

As is the norm in our household, current affairs are discussed on the school run. I like to listen to the news on the car radio, and the kids like to ask difficult questions. I enjoy the challenge of trying to simplify world events for their 6 and 8 year old minds. And they seem happy enough to indulge me. This morning the conversation covered colonialism, the planting of Ulster, The Troubles. The murders of the soldiers on Saturday night. The lads listened patiently. They asked questions that showed they understood.

What did they take from it all?

Well, they seemed the most appalled that the pizza guy had been shot.

I may need to work on my narrative.

Here we go again...

So, how'd the reunion go you ask? Well...

1)there was much wanky business card swoppage...
2)no one had changed much at all...
3)(except) it appears everyone has come out since we left college...
4)Very little reproduction has been going on (which is reasonably explained by point 3)
5)but maybe people were a little nicer than they once were...


Only one of my plethora of arch-Nemesis's turned up. I was polite. Fixed my best 'I still really dislike you even though its fifteen years on, and no, that blonde hair does not suit you' smile. Thankfully most everyone else seemed to feel the same way and she fecked off again pretty quickly.

I drank Guinness, chatted to everyone a little. Found myself bonding with the Gamers, being a little bored by the die-hard Fine Gael / Fianna Failers. But overall, pleased I'd turned up.

But there seems to be a bit of a theme going on at the moment...This whole looking back business is catching it seems. What with recessions and IRA re-emergence Mr Oubliette was prompted to ponder - 'What, is it the 80's again?'

As is the norm in our household, current affairs are discussed on the school run. I like to listen to the news on the car radio, and the kids like to ask difficult questions. I enjoy the challenge of trying to simplify world events for their 6 and 8 year old minds. And they seem happy enough to indulge me. This morning the conversation covered colonialism, the planting of Ulster, The Troubles. The murders of the soldiers on Saturday night. The lads listened patiently. They asked questions that showed they understood.

What did they take from it all?

Well, they seemed the most appalled that the pizza guy had been shot.

I may need to work on my narrative.

UCDon't ask, it was so long ago...

So, college reunion tonight.

Hmmm...

Thirty or so people who all knew each other when we were young, skinny and drunk. Am not sure what I feel about meeting up with everyone again. Really wishing I'd made more of an effort to write the great Irish novel. Wonder can I work the Saggart and Longford wins into the conversation? Wonder if I can sex up Saggart and Longford.

And really, the people I'm seeing tonight are all so successful and perfect (as far as I can tell from Facebook, which we all know is a reliable source...) And while I don't want to get all Gore Vidal on ye ("Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies.") its quite annoying how accomplished they all are...



Okay, so here's the plan... if anyone of yiz are in town tonight, pop into Doheny and Nesbitts and come ask for my autograph. Act adoring. Tell me how you love my work. I'll simper and demur. And I'll buy you a coffee slice tomorrow.

(Notice how confident I am that none of them read my blog! Lol!)

UCDon't ask, it was so long ago...

So, college reunion tonight.

Hmmm...

Thirty or so people who all knew each other when we were young, skinny and drunk. Am not sure what I feel about meeting up with everyone again. Really wishing I'd made more of an effort to write the great Irish novel. Wonder can I work the Saggart and Longford wins into the conversation? Wonder if I can sex up Saggart and Longford.

And really, the people I'm seeing tonight are all so successful and perfect (as far as I can tell from Facebook, which we all know is a reliable source...) And while I don't want to get all Gore Vidal on ye ("Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies.") its quite annoying how accomplished they all are...



Okay, so here's the plan... if anyone of yiz are in town tonight, pop into Doheny and Nesbitts and come ask for my autograph. Act adoring. Tell me how you love my work. I'll simper and demur. And I'll buy you a coffee slice tomorrow.

(Notice how confident I am that none of them read my blog! Lol!)