A letter to my great-great-grandchildren, who by the time they get to read this, will be living in a cave and eating each other’s toenails. by Mick Corrigan

I have stuffed myself with all the stuff

put more in my mouth than my belly can hold

passed out face down, on the all-day, all-inclusive, 

all you can eat, all the nom-a-nom-a-nom buffet.

(and by “I” I mean “We” and by We I mean “They”)

Brow sweat dripping from the hard work of others

my pre-coronary, bacon infused glow 

like a foie-gras fattened sunset,

arteries setting, setting, setting,

my massive arse a sight to be seen

clearly visible from several counties away.

After everyone ticked the box 

approving terms, confirming conditions,

to continuously improve the end user experience

we set fire to the planet with strong words and a hearty appetite,

a magma of stupidity readily erupting from vague intentions and frilly rhetoric

of the great and the good who turned out to be neither and about as useful 

as a saddle on a fart for riding down to the shops.

Tonight as you huddle like desperate moths around a failing light

and the hedgehogs of wrath come looking for payback,

your ancestor, your great-great-grandfather, 

the bequeather of air unfit to breathe and water unfit to drink

writes this to say hi, goodbye, I am so-so-sorry. 

Mick Corrigans’ poems have been rejected by some of the finest magazines around the world, his debut collection, “Deep Fried Unicorn”, was released in to the wild in early 2015. His poem “Snowbound” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2018 by San Pedro Review, USA, his poem “If Harry Clarke made a stained-glass window for the Magdalene Women” was nominated for a Forward Poetry Prize 2018 by Poetry Bus, Ireland.

He spends his time as though he has an endless supply of it, between Ireland and the island of Crete. He plans to do wild and reckless things with his hair before it’s too late.