Journalisticus Gonzocus Hibernicus

Journalisticus Gonzocus Hibernicus

Poetry

Kevin Higgins

Each morning around four in the afternoon
a crypt cracks opens and out you crawl,
the shades Michael Hutchence’s valet leant you bravely
fighting off the viciously sarcastic Irish sun.

 

Today you’ll be asked, by a last minute replacement
for Dave Fanning, what it was like
to fondle with both cheeks a bar stool on which
the more avant-garde half
of Hall and Oates once sat.

 

Later you’ll impress
a guy from Clonmel by taking out the plectrum
the editor of the NME sent you this Christmas,
the one Keith Richards used as a tooth pick
during the Steel Wheels tour.

 

Tomorrow, Andrea Corr will text
to tell you she’s added a codicil to her will,
leaving you shares in the leg of a piano, against
which Liberace once briefly leant.

 

When next in L.A. you’ll celebrate
by making inappropriate use of a cubicle
where it’s said Charles Bukowski, back in the day,
failed to properly flush.

 

But first, you’ll hold open a lift door
for a dude who claims he was once asked to join
Katrina and The Waves. Then home,
to dream up paragraphs
for a world exclusive on a glass
of water Adam Clayton once considered drinking,
under the soothing blanket of granite
where you must, until the next time,
once more die.

 

Kevin Higgins’s Song of Songs 2:0 – New and Selected Poems will be published by Salmon Poetry in April. His poems have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Times (UK), The Independent, and The Daily Mirror. The Stinging Fly magazine recently described Kevin as “likely the most read living poet in Ireland.”

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