Junction

At this junction where the locals

Resound with the ringing brass,

An uneasiness descends upon me

That is indescribable.

The overwhelming generosity of

Those within this former home of

God and his followers –

A home they still call “our own” –

Convinces me that my own attendance

Here is tinged with ulterior motives:

And who’s to say otherwise?

Where their propagated cause is worthy

My own is certainly fraudulent,

This whole show a simple smokescreen

For me to see her alluring self again.

In this candle-lit setting,

Folly gives rise to hope as the scents

Sweep me away to my imaginarium –

Home to such impractical desires.

Above my seat, a film reel highlights

Why we are here, but rather than it

I stare silently at her, the essence of innocence.

Come the show’s end, they take the acclaim

While I harbour hopes of taking her heart;

Yet a person in idleness fades from memory,

And I was trapped in the depths of Clongriffin

While an inevitable swoop took place:

Her heart has been stolen from my palm

Where it never sat comfortably to begin with.

And I just have to marvel at my bold plans

Of fleeing this island and making my fortune:

What would be the point if I returned to find

That everybody I had ever loved was gone?

Crack Den Revisited

Riverside Walk, walked so many times before,

Lies more littered than ever beneath my feet -

At the first bench, four winos murmur harmlessly,

Whiling the day away in homeless ossification.

This is an old haunt with new features,

None of which are complimentary:

Broken bottles and empty cans still litter pebble island,

But now with such excess

That the island itself is drowning in filth;

Some trees, beaten by the ferocious turns of

The moody weather, lean on each other for support,

But the weight becomes too heavy

And two trees lie fallen, side-by-side,

Brothers in arms who fought a futile fight;

And then a man walking his dog strolls

With nonchalance into the heart of this country,

Shattering my delusion that this place was secret, safe -

Entirely our own.

Riverside Walk, walked so many times before,

Is not what I expected it to be,

But neither is it the place I really wanted to see -

Tradition rather than expectation dragged me there.

My true interest lies in the opposite direction

Where a crack den lies in seeming obsoleteness.

The walls are as crumbled as on my last visit,

Nearly two years ago, but there are signs of recent use:

Empty boxes of Doritos and multiple cans of Druids

Carpet the withered dead grass,

While two metallic boxes act as couches for visitors,

A luxury absent before but which I avail of now;

Smouldering embers at the heart of the den

Fan the sad dying smoke towards its end;

And there’s writing on the wall,

New graffiti supplanting the old

Which confirms all of my previous perceptions:

“Crack den - don’t pay with the walls.”

Then breaking branches and footsteps

End my reverie - the winos are returning.

Hypocrisy

A time spent pining for a solitude

I could never hope to handle

Has passed by with me thinking

The most obvious thing:

I feel so alone.

At every twist of the neck

Many visions meet my eyes,

And realisations rupture my thoughts,

That stir the sincerest pangs of jealousy

A hypocrite can deign to feel.

I see my brother so happy

And marvel at how I envy him;

I see my friends manoeuvre with ease

Through the minefield of love

And come through with nothing more

Than a scratch on the heart;

I read and witness stories fictionally

Played out that render me a disservice

Because they fool my mind

Into believing things just happen

Perfectly and without justification;

And I take as many false steps forward

As I do backward because I have

No idea as to what I want

Or when I want it

Or even how to attain it when I dream it.

The only thing I can acknowledge

Is a loneliness only a certain person can cure,

A person who has no idea

That she is placed so precariously

On a pedestal that so many have jumped

From in the past from suffocation -

A pedestal that would be better off

Dismantled and tossed into a raging fire.

Trust

I trust not in myself
For respect there is wanting;
I trust not in others
For its breaking is daunting.

I trust not in family
For it is all they expect from me;
I trust not in strangers
For they will always try to flee.

I trust not in friends
For fear of their disdain;
I trust not in lovers
For valour’s failure to gain.

I trust not in preachers
For they philosophise about hell;
I trust not in philosophers
For they preach simply, then yell.

I trust not in idleness
For statuettes are ignored;
I trust not in movement
For ardour was never my sword.

I trust not in life
For it can only end in death;
I trust not in dying
For it can only occur without breath.

I trust in nothing at all, then,
For want of a better choice;
I trust in nothing at all, then,
For want of one consoling voice.