Phone.  Phone.  Phone!  Phone?  Phone??

Help me to feel less alone.

Oh look! A new like!


During a recent tidying up we found this manuscript fragment by the late unsung Dublin poet T. S. McGelligott who died in 1908. We believe his work may have circulated in manuscript from among the Symbolists. The Editorial Board of The Definitive Indefinite Article felt it would be appropriate to share this before April is out.

The Waste Ground

By T. S. McElligott

  1. The Burial in the Shed

April is the cruellest mott, breathing

Rothmans all over the gaff, mixing

Smirnoff and Cointreau, dyeing

Brown roots with “Spring Rain.”®

Super Ser kept us warm, covering

Earth in headacheful fog, feeding

A Jack Russell with dried raisins.

Assumpta surprised us, coming over the other Sunday

With a shower of lads; we stopped in the head shop,

And went on in sunlight, into the Brewgarten,

And drank pints, and talked for an hour.

Tá sé mahogany gaspipe feasta gan adhmad man

And when we were youngflas, scutting on the bread vans,

My cousin, he took me out on a Honda 50,

And I was frightened. He said, Maire,

Maire, hold on tight. And down we went.

In Tamangos, there you feel free.

I walk, much of the night, finally get a cab on Dorset Street.

It is that time of year again when we recycle this post.  Today December 22nd in 1989, Samuel Beckett died.  Since then he has fast been acquiring an “honoured name.”  Is that Hell?  


on all that strand
at end of day
steps sole sound
long sole sound
until unbidden stay
then no sound
on all that strand
long no sound
until unbidden go
steps sole sound
long sole sound
on all that strand
at end of day 

-Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)

As the New Year’s rush to grab content for digital reading devices like kindles and nooks and L&N Books’ newly reconfigured MeBuke continues unabated The Definitive Indefinite Article is delighted to announce that it has acquired Erse Holes 4 Everyone, Inc and has launched Twitríocht.
The Cantankerous Reader: And what good, tell me, will that do for the world?
TDIA: It will provide our subscriberverse (C) snippets of Irish literature in Gaelic an allow our readers to decide what works they would like to download for their digital reading devices.

The Cantankerous Reader: Would you ever get yourself a real job at all?  [Stomps through scullery.  Sound of back door slamming]

TDIA:  Now that he’s safely ensconced in the shed smoking and sulking we can get on with the lauch of Twitríocht (R)

Is Mise Raifteirí an file,
Lán dúchais is grádh,
Le súile gan solas,
Le ciúnas gan crá.
Ag dul síar ar m’aistear
Le solas mo chroí
Fann agu

From Is Mise Raifteirí

What a fantastic year it has been! 

In January we had the immortal quote from our Outraged Reader: “NATIONALIZE THE BASTARD BANKS!’  Of course this was ignored by grown ups with suits in the hope that everyone would forget about the whole thing and, in large part, everyone did.

In February we had the world exclusive on the last letters of Col. Trevelyan Makeshift-Bastion, a similarly exclusive report of Pope Dancing Foxtrot With Celebrity Fascist long before celebrity fascism had even become popular and some assorted ruminations on Ponzi Schemes.

March brought with it wind and rain and disturbing movements on the Hedgeer Hemlien Index, fantastic St. Patrick’s Day frolics, and the news of AIG for Sale.

April was indeed the cruellest month and The Definitive Indefinite Article took to heart the advices of Ludvig Wittgenstein: “Whereof we cannot speak reasonably, we must pass over in silence.”  Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 7

May we heralded in in time-honored fashion with a stirring rendition of the Internationale, the introduction of Twiterature and its Spanish language version Twiteratura.

June brought us my own mysterious disappearance, Hedgeer Hemlien acquiring Bigote of Barcelona, Bloomsday, the birth of Twiterary Cwiticism and the  launch of ipuke, the app that makes your phone throw up all over itself at night.

July was a slow month with wi fi in Dublin taxis bringing the death of obscurantist conversation and the French Foreign Legion setting fire to Marseilles.

August saw the end of reader-generated content and the rebranding of AIG as CHARTIS

September was a mixed bag of little note.

October saw  Dublin being the real winner in the Olympic bidding process.

November saw the Definitive Indefinite Article branch out into plagiarism, the Thierry Henry Sportsman of the Year/Decade debacle and its associated vinicultural fallout.

December delivered itself of TD Paul Gogarty shouting “Fuck You” at Emmet Stagg in Dáil Éireann, the continuing decease of Samuel Beckett , The Mire’s Year in Review and (the ultimate, the ne plus pas ultra in self-referentiality) the Definitive Indefinite Article Year in Review.

Here’s to another year of pharmaceutical auto bots misguidedly leaving links trying to sell Celexa to the residents of  St. Loman’s Home for Retired, Decrepit and Indigent Blog Taglines and their Relicts. Now pin your ears back, ignore the bad 70’s clothes and enjoy (email subscribers please do not all visit the site at once or you will crash it):

The Earnest Reader: I am afraid I have some bad news to share about our proprietor

The Concerned Reader: He’s not…

The Earnest Reader: No.  As you know he recently disappeared up a mountain in Donegal to become a monk of some sort.

The Concerned Reader: That was somewhat surprising but not entirely shocking.

The Earnest Reader: Well, it gets worse.  He has shaved his head.

The Concerned Reader: [Gasp of horror]  But those tresses!  Nonetheless, hardly tragic.

The Earnest Reader: And has taken to writing poetry.

The Concerned Reader: Oh dear.

The Earnest Reader: And sending it to us demanding it be posted.

The Concerned Reader: Oh dear oh dear.  Is there a lot of it?

The Earnest Reader: Thankfully at the moment his monkishness is taking the form of simplicity and bareness so his output is sparse and minimalist.

The Concerned Reader: There is at least that to be thankful for.

The Earnest Reader: There is

The Concerned Reader: Are you going to publish it?

 The Earnest Reader: I suppose so.  Those of you of a refined aesthetic sensibility are cautioned to stop reading now  [Reads reluctantly]

i have given away my nothing

so my hands may now applaud

their own renewed emptiness

The Concerned Reader: Jaysus!  do you think he’s handed this blog over to his spiritual guide?

The Earnest Reader: I don’t know.  



We here at the Definitive Indefinite Article have been very busy since 10 am this morning.  A cohort of 200 of interns, each with a dedicated computer has been tasked with getting me two tickets to Leonard Cohen at Radio City Music hall.  Mysteriously none of these interns, the best and the brightest mouse clickers in the land, could find a single ticket for sale at Ticket Monster’s official website.  


Fortunately one of the interns did find two seats for Leonard Cohan at Radius City Music Hell for the knockdown price of $1,151.26 each so I suppose that will have to do.   Curiously enough the keywords the intern had to type in were “spandex bikini.”  My intern also informs me that Ticket Monster tastefully played an unlicensed version of “Please Don’t Pass Me By” while the transaction was being processed.


Another of our interns offered this piece of allegedly consoling verse:


“I searched hard

On the whorled wide web

For entry to the house of song.

I will stand outside the golden door

And hum to myself

The expensive melodies

I will not hear.”


Needless to say, said intern was immediately sent packing.