No Room At This Inn

The population
of a mid sized town, float,
in the wake of
a slowly churning super-tanker
named procrastination.

Sombre men in pinstripe suits
and the crime
that Thomas Mason,
handmade shirts represent.
(Resent that comment all you want you cunt)
Its vile you stunted, bearded judge
of the human condition.

How dare you wear that skin?
When others swim ‘til breath betrays
and water morphs to sky,
another problem solved,
one less head to stamp an evil name upon.

Do you know the fear of war?
The doctor in Allepo
hunkered in the air raid shelter,
the hand he holds already cold.
The mother screaming,
ripping, rending.

Refuge for the refugee,
they can’t all be fucking jihadist
sent to subvert our claim on Eden.
(one of them is your next Jesus)

This paradise of shit and filth
and tongues that spew raw sewage
into the blood stained Mediterranean.
They look too us for life
and all you bastards do is fight,
Can’t you see the ocean rising.


-Dave Kavanagh

A Goodnight Poem



Across the lake of Pasithea,
On the last breathe before sleep-
I spy a dark shadow nymph,
to take me to a fettered deep.

A demon and Nadier bow,
Tango to the west and east.
Chandelier of spider legs,
a diaphanous centre piece.

Lake becomes a sprung dance floor.
music flows from tin wind-chimes
feet on chinks of warm moonlight.
tap poetry in staccato rhyme.

The pieces fall where they will
sleep creeps down the rose clad wall.
The shade of death claims all he owns
as shadows settle in shattered bones.


-Dave Kavanagh

A change in gear, not my usual type of write

The Needle Drops

Faith weighs less
than despair!

Depression drops the needle
and I prepare
to battle thunder storms.

Nastiness creeps and crawls,
fouling shoe leather.

Burnt crude stinks
Like cultured death.

Disease flourishes, where its foul flora
sticks to the bottom of stew pots,
sickening babies in tin-can camps.

A hurricane
races hope across the bay
hope lacks conviction.

Isn’t that always the way?

It rains shelter, stick rafters,
and iron sheets.

Streets are washed to muck
But no one’s leaving anyhow.

Evil is
the weight of expectation
that crushes an island nation
lost to blind demons.

Even the sun here
falls, disgraced

Heat dries corpses on the sand
where recently feral pigs
are the only things fat.

And hope evaporates
in the face of God

-Dave Kavanagh

My Muse

My muse holds
the grit of arctic ice
in her teeth.

Travels south
with Brent geese

On ancient routes
guided by the light
of dying stars.

She is a selkie,
black and sleek
in the waters off
the island coast.

Further in,
spawning salmon
tracking home.

She is the words
that fall
from other mouths.

The reconstructs
of other tongues,

The dissonance
of city sounds
in black sand ears.

She is the sound
of summer nights,
life scuttling in
the undergrowth.

The hare the fox and stoat
and every flea
that bites their pelts.

My muse is
every breath
under Frozen sheets
that shield
a darker face than mine.

And the dreaming
of a boy, that shares
my chest,
my blood and bone.

-Dave Kavanagh

We rather want than work.

(A piece of nonsense)


We rather want than work,

we low and wriggly worms,


who gather at the begging bowl

and howl our want to the moon

but shirk and shrug at toil.


The weight of wealth

would crush our fragile carapace.


The bitter chore of being poor

takes up all out spare time.


A dime more or a penny less

would stir us from our hard won rest.


We gather stones and sharpen sticks

to pick at the scars of lower classes.

Question this and question that

but answers are for smarter rats


than us.


We rather want than work,



-Dave Kavanagh






Charlie Crumbles


Chip, chip, chip.
The sound of mice growing teeth,
and claws digging, digging deep.

Bloodied fists breaking bones
on cold concrete.
Charlie crumbling, crashing,
falling down.

Splinters fly, under the weight
of feet, hands, heads
hammers, mallets, chisels,
blackened fingernails.

Beneath the screens,
graffiti beautifies the scars of victory,
and canonises the bullet bitten dead.

While the fools we called the winners,
stand on the wrong side of
check point Charlie.
And earnest journalists
shake grey heads at the brutal ugliness
of a wall forged from old alliances.

In the east
under the finger-point of white
Shot to kill and drill, drill, drill,
Kept the cold grey face pristine.

No chalk outlines
for the dead.
Deserters dangling on the barbed wire fence.
And mines bristling like thorn bushes,
bloom in the garden of no-mans-land

They come in silent droves,
vandals and tourists free to paint
“fuck the wall”
in rainbow letters six feet tall.

The brass bands of the west
play the last post
to the ghosts rising with the early sun.
More jaded star float above
the spray paint and the smiley faces.

And in the wisps of smoke they stood,
The dumb the deaf, the silent mute.
Watching history write itself
through a cloud of clearing mortar dust.

To hell with an easy death

Draw the dirt of disgrace
across your coal black face.
Carve deep furrows
in the flaccid flesh
of empty foreheads.

Sing the song
of sheep,
shorn and slaughtered.
Offering tribute to the butcher
and his bloody knife

Is enemy too strong a word
to describe this act of cowardice
or bile too bitter an aftertaste?

The rancid reflux
of poison tainted words.
The stench of vomit
drilling holes in clay plugged ears.

Impotency is;
Not to spit in the face
of a false God,
come to harvest
eyes and ears
and finger nails,
to blind the meek
and blunt the raged.

Don’t spend your coin
beating breasts.
Like scuttling spiders
climbing towards
the blue tip of
the Bunsen burner.

Faith is no bullet proof vest,
it’s a target painted
on a numbers chest.

Fight you fucking
riot on the road to
filthy graveyards,

Despise the gift
of rotten plots,
the only real estate
they’ll let you own.

swell the ranks of
angry mobs,
defy the hands that
deal you death,
Play peekaboo with
them instead

-Dave Kavanagh