Soliloquy in Voice of Ageing Rock Journalist, by Kevin Higgins

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There I was on the meditation mat

Jackson Browne gave me to mark

the year of the rat, naked apart

from what’s left of my tremendous

hair, incantating the word

“progressive” to my holy self

and the tiny birds at

the window, who are always

my best first audience,

when the truth came to me:

 

no other combination of parties

can deliver the certain

(and required) surge

in whole family suicide

among those made live in the kind of hotels

not frequented by Keith Richards,

that will occur

if this government is returned,

as it must be.

 

I’m most famous

for having once, allegedly,

shared a hot tub, and my thoughts

on the heroic death

of Salvador Allende,

with Ireland’s baldest

living intellectual.

 

I’m what happens when you take

not quite enough cocaine.

During a session at Lille’s Bordello,

I once pulled Bono’s finger;

or what I thought was

Bono’s finger.

 

I offer these words as evidence

that I’m not actually dead yet. Satan

be good to me and what remains

of my hair.

 

KEVIN HIGGINS is Satirist-in-Residence for The Bogmans Cannon – His Selected Satires can be purchased here.

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