Distortionist

Show me the money.

Show me the knife.

[^]

I’m paid too little
to hand over my life -

so here you go.

Thanks so much.

Is that ok?

More than enough…

[o]

What was that?

What was what?

I saw your hand…?

..some wires were caught.

Don’t lie to me:
all is lost.

You misunderstand, sir:
our wires are crossed.

[>!<]

Strapped for cash, then?

[.]

It’s Christmas, y’know.

I understand:
it’s a big boat.

[?]

Stuck on the dole,
a man with two names;
jobless a year,
no jobs to gain;
supporting my kids
and the ball and chain;
supporting my habit
to escape the pain;
a price on my head,
prepared to be slain;
so tell me, lad,
how are we the same?

…

But I am sorry.

Sure it could be worse.

You could be dead,
leaving in a hearse.

Yet you’d never.

I prefer not to.

So why the knife?

Simply to shock you.

[*-*]

And as Serge said:
all is found.

The guards, here?!

According to the sound.

You’ve ruined my life!

Quite a good guess.

They’ll kill my wife!

She deserves less.

My children, taken!

That would be, yes.

[_]

I’ll stick you now,
Fucking distortionist!

{<>}

Awake I lived,
Asleep I died:
But at least in bed
I did not hide.

Armed to the Tip

Surrounded by death,

Armed with a pen:

With each last breath

I think about then…

Your eyes smile still

From the edge of home:

Tell me, just then,

Did you feel so alone?

So reconciled,

Beyond recognition:

Bound by the bonds

Of unspoken tradition –

You noosed your own,

As life had shown.

*

You without voice

Lived within you:

You without hearing

Died in situ.

In circles we cycle

To the present day:

Motson mutters,

“More of the same.”

A strangled silence

Kills the strongest:

A life asking “why?”

Is certainly the longest –

Without real repose

As life slowly goes.

*

The ink runs dry,

Re-written thoughts:

All to ask now

Is the number of knots.

A family in tears,

The goalkeeper’s blunder:

While a peerless pro

Brings global wonder.

Before them both

There was only you:

A dangling example

Of what not to do –

With death no-one knows

(what pride would not show).


(here I try to relate the deaths of Gary Speed and Robert Enke with my father's)

Chasing Histories

Chasing my own history
Like I can stop time
In this world where
Not even I am mine.
Though still young
I recall my youth
Through a kaleidoscope
Which distorts the truth.

I grow older
As the crowd never ages
Repeating old words
On yellowing pages.
Chronically present
I remain in the past
Fighting for a love
Still fading fast.

Antiquity passes,
Unheard masses,
Rose-tinted glasses
And you and I.

Stubborn stasis,
Without synapsis,
“A state of chassis”
And then just I.

In shadowy corners
An island of one
Marooned to others
But revered by some.
I wait as always
For it to mature
But fail to notice
It slowly immure.

Offending lights
Strobe to blind
Everyone who was
Left behind.
And yet your eyes
Bore right through me
Caged within
My hushed humility.

Antiquity passes,
Unheard masses,
Rose-tinted glasses
And you and I.

Stubborn stasis,
Without synapsis,
“A state of chassis”
And then just I.

History through roses
Perfectly paints us:
The present poses
Happily without us.

Presume The Posts

On he stumbles,

Blinded like I was,

Bouncing off walls

Transparent as gauze.

One despairing dive:

A brotherly screen -

But somebody steps

To screen him from me.

His hair would curl

At her breath so warm,

But when she left

His curls were shorn.

Having died its death,

That love so fleet,

False solace was found -

Her silver-tongue still sweet.

Friends preserve masks

              with ossified odes,

But will not stand

              loitering in their own abodes.

Friends seek refuge

              without restraint,

But will not hear ill

              of ecstasy’s feint.

I hark backwards,

A wont of my own:

Anecdotes of ache

Pile within my phone.

Firmly on my shoulder

Rests a hazardous hand -

Deaf to the words

Of our generation’s bands.

Their words are his,

Uttered in sincerity;

Harsher all the time

In truth and severity.

And she is naïve

To be so callous,

Dragging their story

Screaming through malice.

Friends preserve masks

              with ossified odes,

But will not stand

              loitering in their own abodes.

Friends seek refuge

              without restraint,

But will not hear ill

              of ecstasy’s feint.

And then we collide

          - his world and mine.

Indiscernible divide

            - though inimical inclines.

Yet still he persists

              - silence of the crammed.

His brother he resists

              - his father already damned.

But his friends exist

              - so his posts are manned.

When It Floods

Skies above crack
Before they fall;
In our absence,
Nature grows tall.
And sure as drops
Hit the ground,
We did falter –
The first to drown.

Now forsaken,
Without a doubt;
Our slow poison
Effaced by a rout.
The water rises
To our shoulders;
Us of all guises –
Colder and colder.

The jagged rain
Pricks with points;
The bitter wind
Stiffens our joints.
The peaceless sea
Attacks the shore –
Damnless Clontarf
Yields to the roar.

Epiphany, too late!
Behold the flash.
Some writhe but wilt
As the waves crash.
Floods sweep away
All in their path –
And muds settle above
Our vain epitaph.

Five Rhymes

Here I come,
Just the one;
Loathed by others
But loved by some.

Along came you
To make us two;
Lights do fade
As if on cue.

Then there was three
And we did see
Moving music
And thousands free.

But there was more
As we went four;
Hands held high
And one huge roar.

Now so alive
We became five,
And festival fever
Saw us strive.

Five we stayed,
Not once we strayed,
But bathed ourselves
In fiery arcade.

Beguile

Pressed pointedly

In a protester’s hall,

My gaze rigid

As some notes fall.

Neck muscles taught

As I stare straight,

Fingers fumbling

While I wait.

She sits beside me

With an angel’s smile;

The stage is set,

Hope wafts down the aisle.

The orchestra plays

With pure emotion,

While maids and witches

Toy with devotion.

Some singers bellow

Verses of love;

Others recite words

To lay a bluff.

Uberto is then duped

To our own merriment,

And Dido is deserted

To her own detriment.

And the angel just

Sits, simply smiling,

Her impassivity

The more beguiling.

Her beauty noticed

By the bow nearby;

Her intellect drawn

By the horsehairs’ sigh.

Exiting the church

They speak in peace,

But my heart’s beat

Refuses to cease.

Envy inelegant

Sets with the night,

But where hope seemed lost,

A chink of light.

Her chariot awaits,

She offers to drive

(Minus the bow,

Who fails to connive).

She roams the streets,

Unsure of the city;

I just babble,

My tongue too free.

When we stop, silence

Fills our space,

And as we hug,

Her hair guards her face.

I say goodbye, walk

The wrong direction –

I should have moved her hair,

Upon reflection.

Apocalypnic

The hangover from the picnic

Throbs subtly above my brow,

While the wind and rain outside

Mimic the beats of an arena

Left too far behind.

One year on with little to show,

Bar the reparation of a broken heart

By women with looking eyes

But withheld hands.

In the darkness of home

I recall shapeless tents

In the dead of night

Threatening to swallow me whole –

Without fair judgement.

Visions interchange

Like a kaleidoscope

As my mind amalgamates

Memories and fantasies

Together,

Creating events that never happened

(but that I badly wanted to happen).

And for a moment, head in my hands,

My exhaustion drags me back,

And I am soaked but sprightly again,

Lost in the fiery arcade

Of unanimous emotion

Caused by the duality

Of music and love,

Which are never mutually exclusive.

I feel myself locked arm-in-arm

With friends newly made

And friends rediscovered,

With the oldest of friends

Reliably resolute in flowing

Within the masses, too –

A rebellion against the skies,

Built on castles in the air,

And everybody is smiling.

But back in the present,

As my eyes begin to lose

Their fight against fatigue,

My head vainly screams at me

To finish saying my part

Before the rain outside

Mingles with my perfect rest

And washes away

The hope which blossomed

From being with her,

And being with them all,

As fellow citizens of

The annually apocalyptic

Utopia of Stradbally.

Flies

The difference between

Eighteen and twenty-two

Hurtles forward

From behind me,

Unexpectedly.

At eighteen,

With a child-like innocence,

I stood on a ledge,

Looking down at my

Friends on the strand,

All gathered to celebrate

My birthday;

My best friend

Stood drunkenly in tow,

As I called out

(with his encouragement)

To all those people

Who seemed like they would

Be around forever:

“You are my people!”

At twenty-two,

Many of those people

Have vanished,

Turning right where we

Ventured left;

While so many lost loves –

Who never stood a chance

And never had a choice –

Have left me a shadow

Of the man

I once dreamed I could be.

At eighteen,

I was pure though tainted

With death’s brush,

And yet still whimsical

With simple hopes

And impossible ideas;

At twenty-two,

I am no more than

A carbon copy

Of my father,

The man who would

Remove his wedding ring

Whilst in bars

So he could distract himself

From the pain

Of being himself,

Alive and well

In all things but mind.

It is now

Impossible

To separate true feelings

From self-deception

As lust and love blur

Into one incoherent mess

Before my darkening eyes.

And it is hard to recall

What it was that made me

Love in the first place;

So, locked away,

I can hurt nobody,

Because whatever

Comes next

Will be to

The other person’s detriment –

And nobody deserves that,

So it can never happen.

Pauses

Passages below

Invigorate.

Violet lights

Illuminate.

Spreading madness

Duplicates.

Sweat-backed skin

Saturates.

Many choices

Deviate.

*

Fears of failures

Congregate.

Simplicity self

Deprecates.

Widening eyes

Instigate.

Features painted

Radiate.

Other choices

Dissipate.

*

Brush's flourish

Demonstrates.

Dancing flesh

Captivates.

Meandering gaze

Alleviates.

Blinding truth

Decimates.

All choices

Disintegrate.

*

My move is made

Far too late.

Rouse

The rain thunders,
Crashing against my headphones
While I walk,
Head bowed,
Against the wind.
Liquid shards -
Cold as ice; sharp as knives –
Pierce the music
I listen to,
Usually comforting,
But which today
Drags me
Further into the
Doldrums of my
Self.

Cars speed past,
Causing waterfalls
To rise
And drown
Already dying legs;
Heavier each step,
My trousers are
Fighting me
As the storm whips up
To lash down
From above,
With the music
Still spiralling,
And then
Cascading.

Through squinting eyes
Are outlines
Of familiar landmarks,
Not so far from
Home,
If that is indeed
Its right name
And true destination;
Everything slows
As
Children run by,
Laughing,
Splashing,
Without being touched
By a single drop.

They fly
At the sight of me,
Morose,
Soaked,
Dragging heels
With hanging limbs –
Beaten;
Parents shoo
As families
Arc and veer
While I continue
To stumble and slip
Through
The shop mall –
But I am almost there.

Out the doors,
Across the zebra,
The music
At its crescendo,
The rain
Ravaging my ‘form,
The wind
Penetrating my soul;
I struggle on,
Blustering blindly,
Each step
Statue-esq –
‘til I fall,
And I lay prone,
Raindrops on my face.

Spread-eagled,
Eyes closed a minute,
Every moment
Of my life
Bathed in mere
Simplicity
Recalled itself
To me:
The stones of Bray,
The caves of Howth,
The cliffs of Moher,
The island of Valentia,
Every foray
To Portmarnock beach –
And you.

Those I spent with you,
Too few,
But so simple:
Serenely perfect
And
Trapped in time,
With every wave
And perilous drop
One hundred feet below,
With every cycle
To a cave within
A secluded cliff –
Roused, I rise,
Perfectly dry.

The rain has gone
(without trace of existence),
The wind has died
(with no leaf out of place),
The music has stopped
(without echoes in my head) –
Now all I can see
Is
The surface of the sun,
Shining
Stunningly
On my front door:
I am home,
And have been
Since one minute ago.

Bush

No birds in hand,

Several in the bush,

Their chirping

Fainter

With each passing day

As I wait

For just one

To fly out at me.

Still

For so long,

My joints

Creak

Whenever I move;

Lifelessly hoping

For something to

Break.

Once

Too much happened

And then

There was nothing;

Something then

Threatened,

‘til I fled

Because it felt wrong.

Now there is

Nothing again,

And the

Rustling birds

Become restless

In the bush:

One-by-one,

They are flying away.

His Wall

She hits his wall,
Built from his lies,
Then she recalls
That look in his eyes.

The fiery stare,
So full of love,
Now deciphered
As limited lust.

And it wasn’t the first time;
And it won’t be the last time.

His fingers click,
She comes running,
In bed ten minutes
And he is coming.

When she leaves,
She calls her friends,
Tears down her face,
“When will it end?”

And it wasn’t the first time;
And it won’t be the last time.

She stands out,
Clichéd as the sun,
In a club full of women
She’s the only one.

Not to him,
Jacked up to be
A lovelorn lothario
At each opportunity.

And it wasn’t the first time;
And it won’t be the last time.

Peerless elsewhere
She deserves more,
Yet she goes back,
Knocking at his door.

He just laughs,
Picks his own time,
His choice is his
But wouldn’t be mine.

And it wasn't the first time;
And it won't be the last.

Broken Hearted Pop Song

I took some Panadol
for a broken heart.
Heard drink was the cure
but vowed not to start.
So much promise
left unfulfilled.
Dreams were tunnels
Till my alarm shrilled.

Something once
uniquely spectacular.
Struck dumb by
clichéd vernacular.
Stuttering through
tautologies old.
Our history a cycle
constantly re-told.

I stand there proclaiming
the love you’re defaming,
It cannot be ending
but you’re not pretending,
And now you are crying
while I am still crying,
I can see you’re not lying,
but I doubt that you’re trying.

Formal dress in a
casual setting.
Enough to fool friends
who think I’m forgetting.
Reminded of peace
when I recall our trust.
But unease sets in
this futility of us.

No way back now
and no hope forward.
No solace gained
from being ignored.
Only the truth with
its ringing bell.
The sound of your flight
back to your shell.

I stand there proclaiming
the love you’re defaming,
It cannot be ending
but you’re not pretending,
And now you are crying
while I am still crying,
I can see you’re not lying,
but I doubt that you’re trying.

Here comes the rain
to compound our pain.
Its presence ironic
as we argue in vain.
At night I pray
you will turn and stay.
Only to confront more
diffident dismay.

And my bedroom becomes out of tune.
As a hiding place it came too soon.
You were in it too often before.
You were in it too often before.

I stand there proclaiming
the love you’re defaming,
It cannot be ending
but you’re not pretending,
And now you are crying
while I am still crying,
I can see you’re not lying,
but I doubt that you’re trying.


(if I was to guess, I would say I was listening to Mr. November quite a lot at the time I wrote this)

Tomangos

Caught in this old haunt
By the sea,
Where the beats change
And the patrons
Grow younger –
But we are still here,
Diminished,
Deflated,
But drunkenly defiant
(at least they are anyway).

The politics downed
One blue bottle a time
As that heartbreaker
Strikes again,
While hating this home;
Meanwhile
That callous callow fox
Brings tears to his
Beloved friend’s face,
Cosmetically beautiful;

Yet nobody knows
When either is ever natural.

The carpet is still worn
From repeated steps
Taken in solace
Amidst the inebriated;
Ghosts of the past
Present themselves
Presently
As faces contort
To resemble lovers
Lost to fear.

The strangers only serve
To enforce
The strangeness
Of this situation:
How still time has stood
While passing by
Even quicker than
A second slips
Away,
To nothing:

All seen before, with every
Crossing over the threshold.

Déjà vu
Freeze-framed
Beside the faceless,
Old hangers-on
Having slithered away
To neoteric niches
Filled with people
Nescient to their
Sycophantic ways –
Until the souls are sucked dry.

The sick cycle
Sees them spawn
Anew whenever
A few die off;
And though we’d
Weed them out
With fourberie,
Lurking roguishly
In the corners
Were more:

Fleeing invisibility
For a taste of obscurity,

Always more,
Slyer than before,
So much so
I cannot recognise
Rogue from ravager
Anymore;
Strobing lights
Strangle my sight
As I lose everyone
In the compression.

The stagnating screams
Rise and fall
As I walk and walk
This winding way,
Searching for something
Never really there –
Until, finally,
With thinned-out soles,
I see those I know
And those I don’t

With no longer a clue
As to who is who.

Four Days

Revealing your hand

Was your only mistake,

When you flashed that smile

I just had to play;

Once a romantic

Just like you,

Then love unrequited

Changed my view.

Even through text

I could tell you were keen,

Pushing the promise

Of what may have been;

You were just

A midnight taxi away,

So when you called

What else could I say?

I did it to see

What you could do,

I did it to see

If I could truly love you,

I did it with hopes

Of a half-hearted love,

I did it so I knew

It would never be enough.

Cans in your room

With some choice friends,

All of whom knew

Your previous loose ends;

They averted their gaze

While we kissed on the bed,

I felt butterflies in your stomach

But doubts in my head.

We kissed so hard

You made up my nose,

When it bothered me much

I knew we weren’t so close;

I pressed my lips harder

To convince myself no,

A false promise later

And it was time to go.

I did it to see

What you could do,

I did it to see

If I could truly love you,

I did it with hopes

Of a half-hearted love,

I did it so I knew

It would never be enough.

And for four days I thought

Of you an awful lot

Until I finally got shot

Of me within us.

And for four days I thought

Of you an awful lot

Until I suddenly stopped

My indecisiveness.

Then I thought:

“Us without love would never be enough,”

So I text:

“Tonight I’m too busy with other stuff.”

I did it to see

What you could do,

I did it to see

If I could truly love you,

I did it with hopes

Of a half-hearted love,

I did it so I knew

It would never be enough.