For the past few months I have been working on a poem. No wait! Don’t go! This isn’t like those other poems! No, this one is good. You know those long, sprawling, spooky poems, like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge? Or twisting, dastardly misadventures like The Shooting of Dangerous Dan McGrew by Robert Service? They’re good poems, aren’t they? And you know why. Because they are long and they RHYME GOOD.
I have always admired a piece of poetry that rhymed and told a mysterious story at the same time. Much more than the cryptic, interpretive stuff that people click their fingers to (although that can be fun too). I thought I would do one of these narrative sagas myself, imbued with a tint of gothic modern life. So, I set out to write a long poem that RHYMES GOOD.
The result is a piece called The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin. Here is the blurb:
“Out to the churn, you will depart,
out to that London din.
And don’t return, without the heart,
of the man called Halloran Kin.”
Halloran Kin lives in Belfast as an idler, just one of a clan of 1001 cousins. But when he finds himself hounded and criminalised by Djinn, he is forced to make a stumbling escape that will take him all across the North Atlantic nations of Europe – from the frozen tundra of Iceland to the foggy wilds of Galicia.
Inspired by poems like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service, Halloran Kin is a long rhyming poem set in a dark world of monsters, animals and Ghasts. Told in seven parts, this macabre fugitive’s story spans a decade of chronic remorse, sleeplessness, betrayal, friendship and faith.
There you have it. Most of the tale is related by Halloran Kin himself, as he sits in a bar inhabited by strange creatures. At 1433 lines, the story is over twice as long as the Ancient Mariner, so strap yourself in for a long ride. At the same time, I understand that this can be quite daunting, so please have a read of the extract below, to see if it is something you feel you’d like to check out.
Or, if you’re already sold and want to avoid SPOILERS, The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin is available now for Kindle on Amazon for about £1.50 or on the Kobo ebooks Store for the same price. If you prefer, you can simply buy a file containing 6 different formats (.epub, .mobi, .awz3, .lit, .htmlz & .html) totally DRM-free from Gumroad! (Even if you do not have a tablet, the .html file will still allow you to read the poem as one long scroll on your internet browser). If you want an EXCELLENT PERSON DISCOUNT, just tweet me saying so (@Brendy_C) and I will send you a promo code! This will get you the book for 99p!
That’s all the salesmanship I can stomach for now. If there is a little interest I would like to do an audiobook version of the book at some point. But this depends on many Things. Anyway, if you enjoy my writing and fancy a little adventure, be sure to pick it up!
An extract from The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin, in which our protagonist, for certain reasons, has escaped to a strange city called ‘Sheffield’:
“A dark, dark place, an urban waste,
I’d been run down to a run-down,
but not a face the law would chase
into that ferocious town.
A firm of Adders and of Newts,
needed tough folk for a task,
they’d give you gloves and give you boots,
and questions they’d not ask.
They put us in a warehouse deep,
and told us not to shirk,
but ‘cause I could not eat nor sleep,
all I did was work.
We worked all night, our chests were tight
and there were plenty faintings,
our job for that dank reptile mob,
was framing fake oil paintings.
We’d graft the wood as best we could,
and sand the splinters gone,
varnish the grains, and fake the stains
– the ‘history’ – it shone!
And I filled crates, with two workmates,
called Gallagher and Jones,
and we’d make frames between our games
of Klax and Knucklebones.
Gallagher was kind and round,
and loyal to a fault,
Jones was skeletal but sound,
and drank her pints with salt.
At knucklebones Jones was the best,
she threw the bone so high,
that she could sand and sculpt and dress,
a frame while it did fly.
And skinny Jones, her face so wan,
of this skill she was proud,
and Gallagher, that jolly man,
was always laughing loud.
A year soon passed, with these good two,
in service of the Adders.
When we were asked, ‘what work y’do?’
we said: ‘We’re making ladders.’
And just when my guilt let me by,
and peace I thought I’d gain,
I took some oak, and set to stroke
some grimace from the grain.
And just when I thought, by and by,
I’d left behind my sin,
There formed a face, of that cramped race,
the second of the Djinn.
‘It’s Kin! It’s Kin! It’s Halloran Kin!
It’s him, that very same!’
The Djinn, the Djinn, his hateful twin!
I threw down the frame.
And still it spoke, with funny croak,
‘Kin! You’d best listen true!
I’ve come for craic, with six-a-pack!
I’ve come to humour you!’
With caution now I spoke,
approached the magic oak,
propped up the frame,
and asked the name,
of this merry Djinny bloke.
‘Call me Sofa, call me that,
I’m not what I appear,
I’m a wastrel, but no rat,
come see, just look in here!’
The frame, it shuddered,
the corners stuttered,
there grew a sudden canvas.
A shining screen, was all-between,
and filled with … sneezing pandas?
He played me GIFs, and funny clips,
of cats and dogs and bats and frogs,
and videos of falling down
and getting drunk,
and spinning round,
and children biting children’s fingers,
drowsy dancers, lousy singers,
and though not exactly profound,
the laughter in me lingers.
‘What say you?’ he said with flair,
that living, laughing oak,
‘Though Djinn you are,’ I said with care,
‘you can stay here and joke.
But ‘gainst this wall you will be lashed,
and if you harm these folk,
your canvas will be wholly smashed,
and your frame will be broke.’
And so he watched us as we worked,
and larked with us at breaks,
he played us vids, and yes we smirked,
while finishing the fakes.
He bet on Klax and, with wisecracks,
our games of Knucklebones,
became fast friends with Gallagher,
and solid pals with Jones.
For all his craic and all his fun,
I first did naught but spite him.
But since he was a funny one,
I too came soon to like him.
He watched our games, and learned our names,
told us of merry memes.
And with his ways, the next few days,
was cause of many screams.”
Halloran clasps at his eyes,
as if he’d tear them out.
I would bet there’s more regret
“Barman! A pint of stout!”
His eyes are veined, his eyes are strained,
his eyes are bloody-shot.
He needs another drink, you think,
to really hit the spot.
And here the barman comes along,
some creature made of cloth.
He fixes you with linen stare,
and a feather pillow cough.
“How much drink, d’you have to sink?
What time d’you call it quits?”
Kin just grins: “I’ve had one tin,
and I’ll not sleep ‘til six.”
“There was a day, the Adders came,
and came with Newts et al.
They slithered in, but all the same,
they looked professional.
‘All right, you three, now listen close,’
they slipped around our shins,
‘Two of you have got to go,
That’s how the market spins.
Two of you are fired chums,
you’re to be sacked next week,
we’ve crunched the numbers, done the sums,
output has reached its peak.
Please accept this book token,
our deepest of contritions,
although we hope you three do ken,
our Terms and our Conditions:
There’s only one position hence,
but all three must apply.
Newts! Let’s go talk to our fence,
and sort these issues of supply!’
Yes, we three already knew,
the Terms of this damp, rotten zoo,
not by the skilled,
the position’s filled,
but the one who killed the other two.