Unrequited Love, Friendzone, Creep

In the past unrequited love has been seen as certain romantic ideal. Certainly in the Irish folk tradition there’s been a certain cache of stoic nobility applied to unrequited love. In recent times this has been replaced by the idea of the friendzone where it has been given a cache of being wronged or owed something. These are both ridiculous ideas which prop themselves up on the idea that their love is purer and therefore somehow more valuable than any other offer. Something which is undoubtedly bullshit. So here’s the classic unrequited love versus the perspective of the unfortunate finding themselves as the object of unwanted affections.

 

i. Love As Feathers

 

There’s nothing more beautiful

-than unrequited love,

it’s smiled on from high by god above.

It’s giving without taking,

never tainted with lies or faking.

It expects nothing in return,

yet with passion’s fervor burn.

Pure as any angel’s feather,

and through wildest storm will weather.

An ever present shining light,

guiding home in darkest night.

A pure and white peaceful dove,

nothing is as beautiful

-as unrequited love.

 

 

ii. Love As Fetters

 

You say your love

-is as pure as angel’s feathers,

but I know what’s going

-on in your nethers.

Sitting in the corner stressing,

with your eyes your undressing.

Nothing about your love is pure,

and by your actions you want more.

Your love I choose to forgo,

it’s nothing but lust and ego.

Your advances at times are scary,

whenever you’re near I must be wary.

Move along with your life,

I have no intention of being your wife.

 

Addicted To Money

A while ago I was reading an article about a proposed guaranteed living wage and capping of highest level incomes. In that article was a quote from Richard Branson. You may or may not agree with the proposal, I’m not certain I do myself, but what I found disturbing was Richard Branson’s response, that (and I am paraphrasing here) you can’t cap highest wage earners as that would take away all impetus for them to work 15-20 hours a day. Now this is amongst the many reasons I will never be a billionaire, but that is a ridiculous argument. Working 15-20 hours a day is not healthy and, in the health obsessed society we live in, why is that acceptable? We shame every other indulgence from heroin to an extra coffee slice on a tea break, but what makes this different? To me there is no difference, I do not think the power, status or agency that comes with wealth changes this unhealthy relationship with money one iota.

 

When you’re addicted to crack,

they say there’s no coming back.

You’ve become the worst of the worst,

your future’s been cursed.

Stealing from family and friends,

to pay for crack with no end.

 

When you’re addicted to cocaine,

they say you’re sniffing insane.

Your white line dependence,

makes you prone to violence,

venture finance, stock investments,

and people’s resentments.

 

When you’re addicted to drink,

it puts relationships on the brink,

it’s called alcohol reliance,

an attitude of non-compliance,

leading to drunken altercations,

and ending in alienation.

 

When you’re addicted to cigarettes,

it may help you deal with your frets,

but inside it’s killing your lungs,

takes all taste from your tongue.

Coats with the stink of their fumes,

and with cancer entombs.

 

When you’re addicted to sex,

they say your life becomes a wreck.

Spending days and nights hunting,

in hope of sweating and grunting.

Fucking with ease,

and facing sexually transmitted disease.

 

When you’re addicted to food,

people are often very rude.

They’ll make jibes at your weight,

say it’s yourself you must hate.

You’re heading for a heart attack,

because of your love to snack.

 

But when you’re addicted to money

no one thinks to get funny.

Though your addiction to wealth,

is fueled by sacrificing your health.

Working days without sleeping,

so that the cash keeps on heaping.

Stepping on all in your way,

anything to increase your pay.

Though the greed smothers,

hurting yourself and others,

but to you they’ll defer,

the great entrepreneur,

captain of industry,

a name that’ll go down in history.

Your money a pass,

to behave like an ass,

act entirely callous,

yet never accused of malice.

“A maker of hard decisions,”

will read history’s revisions,

because we’ve all bought the fiction,

that money is not an addiction.

 

Just Do It Already

Sick of this will-they-won’t-they bullshit. The Ross and Rachel of Irish politics need to just get it on already! You may also notice a certain disdain for how much of Irish government is conducted in a pub. Not saying a couple of sneaky pints at lunch time is the worst thing in the world, just don’t do it when you’re  making decisions that directly impact upon the lives of millions.

 

Tuesday afternoon

even those from afar,

sit in the Dáil bar.

Glasses clinking,

politicians drinking,

plenty of noisy,

and very little thinking.

Kenny and Martin,

sit across the room,

blushing as love starts to bloom.

Eyelashes flutter,

faces fluster,

Noonan grabs Enda’s knee

and grumbles “maith an fear.”

The Healy-Raes briefly stutter,

mid two hour long sermon,

on why Kerrymaid is the best butter,

and determine,

“tsch! Would they ever get it over with?”

The barman sighs,

as Mick and Danny their speech reprise.

Off to the corner,

Eamonn Ryan’s brow furrows,

as he burrows,

through the jukebox’s goods,

for Back In The High Life Again by Steve Winwood,

fails,

and settles for Get Lucky,

as Catherine Martin gets plucky,

taps Stephen Donnelly’s shoulder,

slips behind and saddles at the bar,

as the fooled Donnelly begins to smolder.

The barman leaves the Healy-Raes,

gets her soda and lime,

relief on his face could be seen,

all the way from Ardamine.

Micháel and Enda,

circle now,

whispering sweet nothings,

of government agenda.

Micháel sweetly whispers,

“combine property tax and water charges,”

Enda coos “and cuts to social welfare,”

a jealous Joan storms to impair,

but gets caught by an angry Mary Lou,

who drags her back with a yank of the hair.

Shane Ross steers to interfere,

resulting in the loss of his beer.

Wallace and Daly take bets,

as the ladies shout threats,

and Adams reminds everyone,

that Sinn Féin is not linked to the IRA,

or even the army cadets.

The boys giggle and flush,

Enda toys with his hair,

Micháel regrets the lack of any up there.

With a whisper and a hush

the two exit in a rush.

 

And that’s how governments are formed in Ireland.

Panama Papers

Is anyone really surprised by the Panama Papers? I’m not, though the mischief Putin’s been up to is an extreme example, the antics of David Cameron and the wealthy in the west implicated in these documents show that while presenting a stern face to tax avoiders like Jimmy Carr the wealthy and politically powerful have been prising open tax regulations to allow this nonsense. Now watch them sacrifice a few pawns and leave these regulations wide open.

 

The wealthy avoid taxes,

and as our indignity waxes,

they will sacrifice pawns,

waiting on public yawns.

Then the Panama Papers,

will disappear like vapors.

Systems which allow evasion,

will stand without alteration.

Then obscured from sight,

will be strengthened by the right.

While we all sit distracted,

by how Miley Cyrus acted,

because we do not care,

about what is just or fair.

Just simple distraction,

and easy satisfaction.

We get what we deserve,

no wonder they have the nerve,

to avoid paying their dues,

with rampant tax abuse.

No worry of states’ financing,

august brings Strictly Come Dancing,

X-Factor and Great British Bake Off.

So keep feeding at the trough,

while public services crumble,

because the exchequers takes are humble.

So stay huddled up in your squats,

the money’s better spent on their yachts.