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27 August 2004 @ 07:11 pm
Through a glass, but it's foggy  
My father is renovating a shed into a bed sit with bathroom and kitchenette. He has these little hobbies. I went out to take a look.

DAD: *extreme shock* You…came out of the house.
ME: Well observed.
DAD: You are…not melting.
MUM: Well, did you notice? Over there.
DAD: Of course she didn’t.
ME: *with dignity* I did too. There’s a sink with no tap, and a cupboard with no handles. Are you going to rent this place out or something? I would suggest getting the skates on with the tap if so.
DAD: No, it is for you and your illegitimate children.
ME: I see. We do not rate taps.
MUM: We’ll rent it to you, yes.
DAD: To pay for the taps.
ME: And here I was thinking I would get it free.
MUM: It’s good to have, actually, because when people come to stay they can bugger off out here.

While doing Very Important Stuff today (reading, eating chocolate etc) I came across one of my old homework journals. Of course, there was no homework, per se, recorded in it, but my early literary genius is incarcerated within its mildewed pages. I wrote these poems at the tender, acne-d age of about fourteen, all, as far as I remember, during JC Geography class. Poor auld Mrs Murphy. All I ever learned from her was that population pyramids for Brazil are triangle shaped and those for Germany are not. Sterling knowledge, however, that will no doubt be of great benefit to me in my life to come.

Here are my poems. And god if they are not worse now than when I originally wrote them. At least they were written in the spirit - if not the evidence - of comic poetry, not serious Sylvia Plath-ish mode.


I am in Geography
I’m meant to be listening
But this is Murphy, come on,
We couldn’t give a shin.
(It’s meant to be ‘shit’, you know
But it doesn’t rhyme.)
I’ve some homework on what’s below
The crust of the earth.
But everyone already knows
There lives Hitler’s daughter.
She operates a Nazi base
That launches UFOs.
I am in Geography
Never listening
I am in Geography
Who really gives a SHIT?

Imagine, I’d never even heard of Nirvana then!
Also, schnoogles to Jack, who told me about the Nazi base in between kicking my chair and shouting ‘Suit you sir!’ at the top of his lungs whenever things got a bit quiet.


Spring, spring, it’s a wonderful thing
The world’s bright and beautiful
Mating instincts zing!
Many little bunnies
Are made at this time
Baby birds and little Bambis,
Six or seven of a kind.
It’s a time to be merry
A time full of joy
A time of blooming cherries
Come on! GET IT ON!

No comment.


God! My thumb hurts.
Ow! It’s sore.
Blood and guts spilling out
Goo and gunk and gore.
I think I’m dying
It could be true
I am a hypochondriac
But this time I’m through.
I want to say
Goodbye before I go
To my corgi, Lindsay,
To my earthworms too.
I’m leaving my fortune
To the Flat Earth Society
In the hopes that soon
They’ll dig through the ice-caps
Find the belly of the great camel, Raps,
Plant the Union Jack
On God’s toes
Visit Hell
Above, not below.
Well I’m fading now,
I’ll soon be gone,
And when I die they’ll shout out loud -
‘Good riddance to the Queen Mum!’

This is exceedingly callous, even for me. Possibly a commission? Aoife was a bit pro-IRA, and she sat near me in Geography. (Also, this was well before she actually did die, and I don’t hate the Royals. They are so amusing.)


Ireland is a VERY VERY cold place
Wet and rainy
Life goes at a funereal pace
The bloody fog hits
Every bloody winter
Ice on which to slip
Sleet, but no snow.
Well, I ask
Why’d anyone actually, ever, live here?
Well, Ansbacher accountants
Reside here without fear.
Like every other government
Ours is corrupt
Bad politicians are sent
To jail for three weeks!
The sun here never
Dares to show his face
Guys are stunted from lack of sunlight
(except in Naas!)
Queer names like - Ballybunion!
Pigeonpark, Dudarkyark, Oldtown and Janesfolly
Blanchfield’s Land and Morgagefields are a bit of a mouthful
But trying to bloody say them is bloody jolly!
‘Ireland, Ireland, that’s the home of my youth’.
Unfortunately, that’s the truth.
All year long, colds and ‘flu,
My youth cries. ‘What the hell did I ever do to you?’

Ooh, political overtones! Clearly I’d had another annoying day of being called a ‘flaming Sheila’ and fielding demands to say ‘G’day mate’.

Interestingly, I’ve…never been to Naas.


I wish I was a butterfly
So little and so small
I wish I was a tiny fly
Hanging on your wall.
But if I was a butterfly
Would you hold me - till I’m dead?
But if I was a tiny fly
Would you squash my tiny head?
Insects have but little brains
They wouldn’t see too much
So spying on the boy’s toilets
Wouldn’t be so revealing, as such.
All in all, a bug’s life
Is well and truly shitty,
You’d be so easily squished
If you were so bitty
So that is a stupid wish!

That, I think, was my idea of a love ode.

And finally, possibly my attempt at biomorphic abstraction, in the ‘Elephants are contagious’ manner.

This is your worst nightmare - Bridget O’Reilly Ann Murphy George Darcy. Well bar of soap must move that husband doesn’t like sandalwood. Passing Askeaton one sees dogs and much ocean waves passing rugby English game you know.


What on earth was my life like back in those dark, dark times?

Ho hum. Off to register for my year-long art course while I make up my mind whether to become a hairdresser or a fireman. (I mean fireperson). My ambition to become the Pope has, sadly, died, although I have plans for abducting his Popemobile. TEH COOL.

So of course I wait till 12 midnight to find: my birth cert (huh, telling me so many things I didn’t know), my LC results, 300 euro (via my mother’s chequebook), and a load of paperwork I got at the interview. It was a stroke of genius storing that stuff in my portfolio case; I knew exactly where to find it, unlike, say, putting it in a filing cabinet or something normal. In that case, I would still be wailing: ‘I have a three-tonne file of all my teeny-bopper correspondence, from the days when, shockingly, I wasn’t hooked up to the net, but where is the registration form? WHERE?’

New discovery for ignorant atheists! Instead of saying AD, for Anno Domini Year of our Lord (I used to call that After Death, but hey), you can now say CE, for Common Era, and BCE.

But why Common, I ask? Why not Cool Era? Or, Rare Era? Special Era? No-Longer-Monkeys Era?

Also, why doesn’t lipstick taste nice? It goes on your mouth, after all.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: 'She Will Be Loved', Maroon 5
gabbysun on August 27th, 2004 02:33 pm (UTC)
xD Your parents sound great.

Hey, great poems! I've always liked this style more than the stuff you hear more of nowadays, i.e. "Blood seeps slowly/Over my neck/And I cut/etc.,etc." Yours are to be preferred. :D

Popemobile... WHY ARE YOU SO COOL!?
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on September 22nd, 2004 12:01 pm (UTC)
No, seriously, he has a Popemobile. It's a Mercedes Benz. He probably gets a new one every year.

Clearly, the plate collections are quite generous in the Vatican City, as of course through his vow of poverty he can't get money any other way.

gabbysun on September 22nd, 2004 02:20 pm (UTC)
. . . I want to be a Pope. :(



every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on September 23rd, 2004 07:13 am (UTC)
We all want to be Pope...or at least, all cool people do, especially female ones! I also wouldn't mind a shot at being a cat...

Ah, thought so...and Popes are meant to be so virtuous. (Hang on...Borgias...what am I saying?)
gabbysun on September 23rd, 2004 03:26 pm (UTC)
Therefore proving that we are cool, and female! Ingenius!
Even as much as I love and respect my animal brethern, I think that I would like sticking with human form. There's less chance of being taking to a Roadkill Grill, yanno? ;D

I DIDN'T HEAR YOU SAY ANYTHING! *will be whistling innocently and backing around a corner when the Pope and his lawyers come to call*
on a yellow spaceshipo_glorianna on July 21st, 2007 09:04 pm (UTC)
Haha. I'm slyly reading through these early entries of yours and I'm grinning from ear to ear! :D