A Collection of lunatic love stories…

There has been certain images that have been rotating and repeating and spinning and spiralling, through my mind recently (enough). So for fear of allowing them to escape I’ll stick them down here, in no particular order for your eyes to glance over….

Remember what the hand felt as it grazed over the grainy bar-top ?
The sticky smells in the air, the fustiness and the stuffiness,
Yer man in the corner, head bowed and speaking in a Death rattle with eyes like Olives, reading the proclamation of the dammed,
“Beat back them flames, that stung the righteous names of them that filled their early graves ! Risking every single, shred of soul… to leave their mark upon this world”
I told him to give over.

A ragged old suit sits on haggard worn shoulders,
A flick of the fingers, the Zippo erupts.
The burst of white light stabs and cuts through the darkness,
I exhale with a grimace and burst into song.


During my time on the Damien Dempsey tour last month (November 2015) I had the pleasure of soaking up the beauty of many place we past through. It was towards the end of the tour, Kerry and Listowel awaited.
The venue owner was kind enough to show us around town the following morning and brought us to The Seanchaí, Kerry’s writer’s Museum.

A few rooms made up the Museum, dedicated to John B Keane among others, but it was the second room dedicated to a man who’s name I’d never heard before that had the biggest impact on me.

Entering the room I was greeted with a blast of bitterly cold air that complimented the atmosphere of the place. It was a replica of the bedsit in Harcourt St, Dublin that was George Fitzmaurice’s last abode in 1963.
A Kerry dramatist and  writer of short stories who developed Neurasthenia (Fear of crowds) after fighting in WW1. The room was bare but in the far left hand corner a drawing of the man on the wall hit me like a kick in the chest. It was one of Fitzmaurice but was Identical to the image of the man in The Groundskeeper dream I had, resulting in the song (see videos).
He’s been on my mind ever since….


As I walk down Harcourt Street, my eyes they unwillingly meet the shadow of a broken man who’s presence has been shrunken, wilting under the weight of creativity.

His back is sloped like a malnourished Rose, betrayed by his beloved prose. The lampposts creak their winding necks and pity us both without a Rex between us but we are content, to ramble on in search of what God sent.

The two bit, dimly lit bed sit welcomes him home.
I pause wiping my feet awaiting gesture, I’m ushered into the humble, hallowed hovel, littered with paranoia and scepticism.

Fitzmaurice at home 

Fitzmaurice sits in Harcourt Street his eyes shut tight like the curtains.
He’s conscious of every creak from every door and every squeak from every floorboard in the two bit, bed sit.

An Artist who’s life’s work rests in a brown leather box.
His last SOS will remain undelivered, his words immortal, Awaiting discovery.

 All words by David Keenan


Homeward bound for Dempsey tour.

12107001_1636525219934333_7244129023580863064_nI’m back home in more familiar surroundings again, Ireland & Dundalk. London was filled with happenings, words, songs and chance encounters. I’m back on the road again with a man who’s music has been with me since the age of 13, Damien Dempsey. Join us on the following night’s:

November 12th in Danny Byrnes (Mullingar)
November 13th in Cunninghams Bar (Kildare)
November 14th in Garbo’s (Castlebar)
November 15th in Kavanaghs Pub-Portlaoise
November 19th in Mike the Pies (Kerry)
November 20th in The Whitehorse Ballincollig Winter Music Festival(Cork)
Noverber 21st & 22nd in DeBarra’s Folk Club (Cork)

All Tickets are available on http://www.damiendempsey.com/
Much Love X

Estate storm blues


The boys who sell Lemon haze outside disappeared when the rains came. Scurrying past the pole, they dropped the Gangster act because their food was getting cold.

I headed East into the storm, the colour running from my shoes. I felt self-conscious as I Past the wicked Bitch stood at her door. Staring, as the puff of smoke covered her face, while kids wrecked heads within her house.

A trip down Chinatown

11820550_1128432800506306_967302124_n(1)Don’t speak ill of the Spoofers, who proclaim from the rooftops of Galvanize and timber frame they Galvanized their families name. Wishful thinking can be useful as you wish away a skin-full, your doubt becomes a mouthful and from your lips you spill a spout full. Puddles rippled pebbles shook, your face buried deep into a book, full of left hooks and utter madness it strangely fills your head with gladness, OH NO ! It’s happening all again. The Stranger he approached the Lamp post, magnified his Shadow it boasts, feel the grain of the man-made sign post around your Neck it becomes a scratch post for wishful thinkers and heavy Smokers from here and there but no where that comes close. On borrowed sheets you scribble scratches, hoping that your head can grasp the borrowed pen that’s making shapes, your eyes as wide as dinner plates. The Candle burning from the Wick, Eyes begin to fly and flick and paint the walls and paint the ceiling, its fallacy reflects your feeling, funny you feel so content yeah your spirits flow but your heart aint spent, Yet.

Whistle to your Hearts content a tune that echoes down the vent and Travels to the lower classes, silencing the Angry masses. Drips and drabs attending Masses, polishing their reading Glasses they Genuflect and bow their heads to figureheads  from books they read, not knowing if their plan is flawed ! The patience of a Saint cannot be bought. In the  half dark of the Evening the Locals practice thoughtless thieving, dancing in the hallowed muck and wading through the shallow shuck, it’s all for one there’s not enough for all, speak wisdom at the Market stall. Hear tales of twists and turns and luck ! Hand me downs and Homemade hair cuts.  Continue reading “A trip down Chinatown”

Beggar to Beggar, Liner notes

Beggar to Beggar: This song stands alone in many ways, it was written in two parts month’s apart. The way it came about too was significant, at the time I was in a Hostel on Everton Rd, Liverpool. The Lyrics in the Chorus were floating around my head for a while, influenced by one of Yeats’ poems my uncle had left lying about the house, “Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy struck.”- My 11098767_392386594297024_1574460403_nsurroundings at the time seeped into the song too, homeless on the streets I met and befriended while busking on a daily basis, the idea of two souls that corrupt each other yet only have each other in this world. The two coins placed on two dead eyes lyric was I imagine influenced by the English two pence coin’s that would fill my guitar case, the fact that they where large enough to cover your eyes, Charon’s obol in Greek mythology-The Boatman. “The Pebbles you kicked from house’s”— A certain council house I spent most of my childhood, kicking the pebble dash was a favorite pastime.

I think our lives in the grand scheme of things, however great or not, are always “Short and sweet”

Market Square Heads

 IMG_5717 I was up to my ears in unwritten words, the Coffee house was quiet and the streets outside were bare. The Trees that enclose the bed of the rose, flap their wings in flight and mock me in Unison.

The Face of the Taxi rank worker a Custard shade, brought on by sleepless nights ad isolation.

The owner of the Antique shop fails to acknowledge my existence or maybe even his own. A fine layer of dust blurs his Vision as he harbors bitter thoughts of an ever changing unfamiliar world.

I sit, and watch the cliques and pairs gather at the Market square, as the Afternoon approaches and the Sun stops sulking. 

The Undercover drinker.

Should I put the blame on the barman, or the bar-woman,or the change in the weather, or the change of my mood? Will I go undercover, even just the once more, I’ll gather more facts about those bodies on floors and those sticky white tiles that I crossed from time to time, the incandescent jukebox that taunts me in the corner saying “cast your guilty conscience aside and put your last two quid inside me.” We’ll see, we’ll see… 

Do I dare set foot beyond the failte isteach sign? A Guinness a day keeps your Mother at bay, or the smell of cheap bleach you’d inhale while you dream, screams. We’ll see we’ll see.. 

London, from The Beginning


“I’ve gazed through that second floor window, you couldn’t lie straight in bed and I can read you like a book. I dwell on the third floor of this rubix cube, it stands proud against a punch drunk sky. I see the blonde shake and twist in disgust at the fifty quid fine on a poor bastards bike” 

Circumstance has led me to  London,Here I will be focusing on writing and recording all while soaking up word and sound. I’ve started this blog as a way to keep people up to date with my ramblings and writings. I’ll also be uploading new content as well as upcoming gigs.

David x