Just in time for Christmas, Kevin Myers has released an omnibus of love poems and other lexical novelties that he has been writing for the last two decades. For years he was waiting to find a publisher who, as author puts it himself "inspired me to the same level as listening to my own voice does". Myers has decided to go with the original working title for the collection: “Love Is Wasted On The Impetuousness Of The Cuntish Youth.” The collection is avilable at most good book shops and TESCO mega stores natiuonwide. Priced at a very reasonable £149.99 RRP
Some extracts from the book:
- Fuck Whack: Love is molten -
Glistening,
Like white snot.
The life making elixir,
Spurted (Like, love liquor),
From mans flesh spout.
You took it in the wrong orifice,
Now your life is fuck whacked.
- Our Love is Forever -
Oh my love,
How I love you.
Epic power streams
From my heart.
You complete me.
How I'd hate,
For you to cross me.
I would surely destroy you!
- Weighing The Options -
Sugar and spice
And all things nice.
A lone mother,
And her bastard.
You took his love,
A meager 6 inches.
And now you're left,
Broken and unloved.
No future for you,
Your life is ruined.
Better off dead?
- For Gerry Ryan -
The bitterness of the coca leaf
Is only half the bitterness of
A scorned Radio host.
Lament, lament.
Your sorrows are but a distant blowing.
A rustle in amongst the branches,
Of some forbidden flora.
Young mothers pushing prams,
With nostrils full of snow.
Was it for this that young men died,
In Nineteen hundred and sixteen.
No, nor was it for this,
That Gerry Ryan died of AIDS.
Better words than the following,
Have yet to be spoken.
“Fuck the world”.
- God, The Lover -
Darwin, the almighty fool,
Could not feel this love.
His spastic peasant theorems,
Of man with Monkey Brain.
More chance have I
At creating life,
By placing my mickey
In a meat mincer,
Than a monkey
Sprouting human thoughts.
- Ginormous -
Ginormous asses,
On petite lasses,
How do your bottoms grow.
The wonderful mass,
Of the quivering ass,
I am infatuated by you.
I wonder, with
Your frame so small
How does it haul,
That sexual rump around.
Sexual sexual, sexual gods.
Your mound is a sexual god.
17 comments:
So beautiful.
Kevin has a second volume in him. I mean that literally. I saw him in A&E last night pleading with a doctor to remove the remains of that nights kink' session.
I often imagine what clebs' say when they're having sex. What exactly does Pat Kenny say to get his wife in the mood. Is it playful, jokey, or brutal and vicious. It really is something I could happily waste my entire life wondering about.
I presume Pat Kenny, in the throes of orgasm, cries out his own name.
Pat Kenny is very much into pegging. His wife punishes him for being such a drain on the taxpayer by ramming him violently on a bed covered in Easi Singles.
Pat the plank,
loves to wank,
In the bathroom
or bedsheets below.
He pulls his knob,
When he's live on air,
But never does he let it show.
Unlike that Cork,
Langer langball,
Who got on a plane,
and displayed it all.
Pat is clever,
He won't wank'n'roam.
Instead he wanks,
Alone in his trophy home.
Kevin Myers, 2010.
Cheese fromage,
In the anal passage,
Pat and his rectal delights.
The sweet and the sour,
The flavorsome power,
Of delicious cheese scour.
Pat Kenny is full of fun,
he's happy round the clock.
But he's never quite so happy
as when he's sucking on a cock.
Lots of people wonder
why Pat never seems to age.
It's due to a revolutionary skin treatment,
that seems to be all the rage.
Every night before Pat retires,
in to his wife he does race.
She squats her botty over Pat,
and takes a shit all over his face.
Derek Mooney, 2010.
Pat's feces facials,
An adventure in pure decadence.
One must ponder the sexual loathing,
To drown in lovers own feculence.
It emerges,
the brown beast.
Oily,
Aware of itself.
Is it a shit
Or am I the shit?
I am the shit.
Katy French, 2006
Chayse for a hunk o'black bread.
"Did ye pick it yereself?"
"Whisht woman.
'Tis enough of a payce for to be aytin."
"Aye."
Silence is part o'the dinner,
but sure isn't that to be expected?
Aye, since Tomáisín died.
"Faten. Did he die, or was it the two of us that died?"
"Enough, ye auld trout!"
A shlap across the face.
"Arra for jaysis's sake, will ye bay quiet!"
And sure, the pain of it is a faylin at least.
"Eat yere chayse."
"There's blood on the bread now."
A hunk o'black bread.
For th'aytin.
Dáithí O Sé, 1874
That Daithi o Se effort brought a tear to my eye. Who knew the man has such beauty within him. I could really feel the pain of it. Never has a poem made me want to top myself as much as it has now. Daithi, the artist; Daithi the dreamer.
I fu$king love Katy French. She was so fu$king hot. I would lick the shit out her arse, even now, as she lyes rotting in the ground. Fu$king sexy bitch.
Many days have passed,
Since I wrote that book.
Many a thing has happened,
Riots in London town!
Bastard children,
Running amok.
Worthless slut mothers,
Not giving a fuck!
I have a solution,
Nay, a final solution!
Burst their wombs, and
Salt their gonads.
No more spawn,
To destroy London town.
Kevin Myers, 2011 (post coitus)
My dislike of Tubridy,
Grew legs and made its way in the world.
Would that I would feel alive at least once,
as he begged for his life under a poisonous moon.
And would that I could refrain from ending him
Until he had seen his daughters die at my hand.
My dislike finally came home.
Will he answer it?
On second thoughts, will you censor out the name in that poem, in case I actually get arrested or something.
Cordially,
Michael Ammysdick O'nmytits
Noooooooooooooooooooooooo! I'm going to get in trouble for that!
Ah jaysus. This must have been when I was away on holiday.
Only brilliant, full credit.
Post a Comment