Homage To Shane MacGowan

One of this centuries finest writers beset by the Irish creatives tendency for self destruction.  Of course you’re always gonna be better off reading his words than anything I can write about him.

Homage to Shane Macgowan


I saw a pot of gold

Sitting slumped by the road

He was beautiful and broken.

And shone with alabaster

Broken teeth and shame.

His words were gold.


He was rotting

In his prison

But still glowed 

With all thats great

Of the greatest of hungers.


He was Behan

He was Mangan

He was unshaven.

He flowed with a love

That only he could see

With fiddles and poteen.


He’ll always be Christmas

In downtown New York.

The NYPD choir

Will always sing

For everyone

As he thinks of Galway bay


His love was Victoria

But he saw snakes and smoke.

His voice rasped


And his throat growled

As he sang of the road.


One day you’ll leave us

Your beauty still there.

Over a Martini and ice.

You’ve driven our world

With gravel in your voice

Flan O’Brian on your back


Were still here Macgowan

So come give us one more

To remember you by.

We’ll plant a tree of rowan

And raise a glass or three.


Your words of beauty

Words of shame.

As you shout out your songs

As they live down the years.

you won’t want our love.

And you don’t  want our tears

From our dirty old towns.


So one day he’ll be gone

But like Behan and Mangan

He’ll always live on

Down that old main drag

Growling out stories

Of a broken old fag.










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A brave and beautiful tribute to a talent that went like so many others…Sensitive, creative types, often find this world too much to bear without the mellowing effects of something to dull the pain of existence as they see it.
I also LOVE Tom Waites btw. Give me a broken soul who was fatally flawed but spoke truth than some lily-livered, weak hand-shaked shallow git like a politician etc.

Pity more cannot look beyond the outer facade to the intensity of feeling in the indwelling soul.
Alison x


Enjoyed this M 🙂


pure gold.

the pub scene reminded me of the time I was driving through Kilkenny and its environs late at night and came upon this pub, which just appeared like a ghost in the road ahead, and was privileged to share in the best company and singing that a soul could wish for. And at the end of it was able to top up on essentials at the same time!


Brave and beautiful indeed. People are washed and shaped from birth by the particular strain of contaminated flood water in which they were born to swim. This leads us to have some basically inexplicable feelings about some of our fellow swimmers – especially those born in another stream. There is always something that doesn’t ‘fit’. Feeling that, rather than accepting that, Is that the ‘pain of existence’ [attrib: Stormwolf] that causes the ‘self-destruction’ we talk about? Someday, I hope, we will realise that we are all co-creators and all deserve to be recognised as such, whether we be cleaners, cooks,… Read more »

Last edited 2 years ago by griffonner

Charles Bukowski, Jim Morrison, Dylan Thomas, the list goes on. Going where you don’t come back seems to be an inspiration to write what others can’t. Not familiar with this gentleman but enjoyed the poem and i will look him up when i get the chance.

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