Air

I want to say the most beautiful things,
Images of irate tranquility to fill your eyes,
Words so telling, another need never be said,
And all the while I remain hidden in my guise…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

One look and I see in you what I feel in me,
Reflections reflecting retractions, reverses,
I know the truth, yet do nothing to change it,
Verifying the vices in void filled verses…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

A stroke, a touch, gentle is all I seek,
No bases, just a chance of something soft,
A hug, a kiss, embracing all I want,
Yet situation decides, so does it oft…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

And now I see the sun rise in the West.
And I begrudge myself this fortune blessed.

(I quite like the images of this poem, though it is a little short and repetitive - around this time, which is only half way into 2009, or so, a fascination with the West enters into a lot of my writing).

Peace in a Crack Den

Wandering around a childhood home,
Lost in the transition with time of its features,
Visiting an old place in search of solitude,
It still contains the essence of past affiliations,
I see myself throwing stones now eroded at the river’s bottom,
The island of pebbles moves beneath my feet as the water flows freely around,
Once it moved beneath our feet.

The not-so-secret escape is now littered with society’s excess,
Cans and crates hanging from bushes and bobbing on the surface,
The filth forms in pools at the island’s edges,
Four Ducks swim through, in search of clean food in dirty water,
While a lone Herron stands frozen on a rock,
Watchful of the currents while taking in all that the dusk entails,
The peace is dying with the sun, but the memories remain.

But it is not time to retire to the indoors yet,
Not time to succumb to the television and a three-in-one,
The blue door of a home from home is ignored in favour of a new venture,
To the park, with its enclosures and open spaces, backways and hideaways,
That harbour none bar the birds, rats and mosquitoes during the day,
Save those of curious heart and incautious mind,
Light is fading, the chance to find something with it.

Up a steep slope, fighting gravity with tired thighs,
This is the nearest thing to a forest I have ever seen,
An almighty alcove amidst angled trees,
Broken branches and stumps of fallen family,
Hiding the ruins of a hoodlum house,
With the slogan ‘Crack Den’ branded in blue and black across it,
Strewn with the burned out buds and smashed bottles of schoolboys.

Yet odd trinkets lie here too, those fitting of a household,
There’s an ashtray, stained with the ashes of half smoked cigarettes,
And a plastic cup from Prague, brown from the muck of the ground and now stomached cider,
And smashed plates, floral patterns broken, no dinner on them anymore,
And bumpers from cars, as well as tires, doors and wing mirrors,
And even a full outer shell, burned and rusted,
No need to be driven anymore, so let’s spark a fire and brighten the sky.

And there are bones here, fossilised, like in a museum, real bones, calcium deficient,
As well as muscle, skin, soul and entirely life deficient,
They belonged to a person before,
And there are clothes bundled up and hidden in the bushes,
Or buried beneath the grass, but not buried enough,
A pair of skinny white jeans catches my eye,
Torn, cast aside, a broken pink phone smashed next to them.

A peace is here, but it is restless,
Birds fly from tree-to-tree, not singing but muttering,
Eyes piercing my presence, despite clear signs of human habitation,
Their lack of comfort stems not from my sheer being there,
But from their unfamiliarity of my life story and previous haunts,
And the vermin join in the condescending chatter,
It is always nice to be welcomed with open wings and borne fangs.

The blunted blades lie shrivelled, yellow, lifeless,
Charred in places where raucous flames roared, tips touching the sky,
Bricks lie broken beside the remains of the walls they once formed,
Glass and branches crunch and break simultaneously with every step,
While the uneven ground coaxes you to fall, hiding many pot holes,
They open up and swallow your leg whole,
Wishing you to trip just to see your blood spill on its balding soil.

And a shudder runs through my body, reverberating in the earth,
There are nothing but dead ends here.

(ah, the poem from which the blog title came - I wrote this poem after traipsing around Clonskeagh one evening in the summer of 2009 and all the things in the poem I actually saw and all the deductions I made about what must have happened were made from the things I saw whilst exploring the heart of territory only frequented on the weekends, and it got to a stage where I thought I would find something I didn’t want to find, so I stopped and turned back).

Zimmer

Shadows loom, rising of the credits,
Black on white, a mirror, a reflection,
Zimmer’s instrumentals play, note by note,
Fast to slow, hard to soft,
Each one telling its own story,
Yet all piecing together to tell mine,
Or least the story my mind wants to unfold…

Standing in the dark, counting the seconds,
Waiting for the moment when a point is revealed,
Examining the faded stamps on my right hand,
Hoping there is more to life than fancy clicks
And tuxedo t-shirts that intrigue without substance,
Yet convey the split mentality of someone who acts without thought,
Having once been the most remorseful reckoner in my world…

Competing aspirations cloud and confuse any lingering hope of clarity,
Everyday envisaging a new entity to become entwined with, a new fantasy,
Every night harbouring a fresh dream to fritter the day away contemplating,
With each new dream being as unlikely as its predecessor,
Causing pen to touch paper, fingers to touch keys,
Expressing the delirium and disillusionment equally through words,
Which in themselves hold ideals of a purposeful tomorrow…

Yet, as Zimmer’s orchestra escalates in volume,
And decelerates in tone,
Yet, as the credits conclude, bringing the death of surrounding silhouettes,
And the light reluctantly returns,
Yet, as the window is tentatively opened to its widest, inviting the night time inside,
Allowing the moon and stars the chance to voice condescending opinions,
It becomes coldly clearer and clearer that words are too a dead end in these times…

And while gazing over the locality and its dominating centre…
The epiphany strikes that seclusion from soul searching is the only end…
There is no escape from here or I.

Who are my Friends?

I get up,
I get dressed,
I go out:
To DCU,
To the City Centre,
To Barcode,
To Portmarnock,
To Galway,
To Scotland.
I talk to strangers,
I make them laugh,
They enjoy the show.
The next day
I add them on Bebo,
We comment,
And that’s it –
I may see them again,
Once or twice,
But not that often,
While with others,
With people who are,
‘Friends’,
They grow indifferent,
No interest in conversation –
Not even those,
Who I have known all my life.
They all brush me aside,
Years this is going on,
Wondering when it will stop,
‘Cause now I wake up,
Look at myself in the mirror,
And despite my four hundred Bebo friends,
I ask myself every morning,
Who the fuck are my friends?

Veins/Dog's Eyes

And I awake on a couch in a place not home,
A night ending in the morning means dreams till the afternoon,
They all sleep while tempting thoughts race through my head,
Hidden from all except the house’s dog who, with her smoky eyes,
Can see right into my mind and past the façade of my facial features;
She growls, smelling the shame.

And I lose yet again in someone else’s house,
A civil war that never ceases but continues to wage twenty four hours a day;
She occupies my mind’s mantel, her beauty enough to make me crack,
Succumbing to the temptation of apparent solitude,
Even though this place is far from empty, its occupants just asleep,
Its dog gazing menacingly with hazy eyes.

And I run away after my atrocity, leaving without explanation,
Sprinting to beat the speed of my weakness, but failing to outrun its reach,
Stumbling onto the train, where a sit down might bring peace,
But it does not; instead I see her veins on the window panes,
Etched in the condensation, alongside the eyes of the house’s dog,
That chase me now, in the full knowledge of what I did and why I ran.

And I continue to run, back out the doors from which I came,
As my eyes taunt me even more in the rainy sun, seeing veins and dog’s eyes in the drops,
Carved on every wall, drawn on every face, with howls and yells of ecstasy piercing my drums;
I try to take stairs four steps at a time but end up tripping,
Busting my nose off the mocking concrete, now smeared with blood,
Which also drips all over my clothes.

And there is blood on my jersey now.
And I see veins and the dog’s eyes there too.

Unsuspecting Lips

Twisting and turning,
Insides churning,
Blood is burning;
She is now coming,
Silently humming,
Blatantly not running;
Smiling at each other,
Hugging one another,
Not daring to smother;
A day in the park,
Searching for a spark,
Finding contrast stark;
Nowhere to hide,
She just sighed,
A part just died;
No luck denting,
Goodbye is pending,
Never a happy ending;
Then a planted kiss,
On unsuspecting lips,
Landing in a world of bliss…

The old one will not be missed.

Then and Then, Now and Now

Off I wander, down memory lane,
Sun playing off window panes,
Thinking and reminiscing of us two kissing,
While the lake’s surface glimmers invitingly,
Tranquillity in the surrounding countryside,
Contrasts completely with the storm inside,
A lone swan sails elegantly by,
Gazing far and wide, catching my eye…

Leafless trees, robbed during Winter’s freeze,
Show signs of re-birth, swaying in the breeze,
Mind’s skies are dark, with pangs of lightning,
Present skies are clear, clouds dividing,
Roof’s pebbles provoke memories of a time without a plan,
Of days spent by the now dead river with a now dead man,
And the quiet of loneliness allows common sense to prevail,
And the friends around guide me toward a path without fail…

Then and then, I walked innocent minded,
Now and now, I walk innocence subsided,
And I see the sky up so high,
And break down at the end’s nigh,
As soon as reality sets in and sums it all up,
A realisation hits that the world is corrupt,
No longer mine to toy with and tame,
No longer simply an oversized game…

They have taken the board away.

The Machine

It’s like you said, you got the broken version,
Missing a cog in the machine,
Something that once flowed fluidly,
Now stutters and coughs, spluttering in a fight to feel,
A fight to care, a fight to be decisive for better or worse,
You say you’ll try and fix me,
But you don’t have what I need.

My friends do.

It’s the opposite of what you said, there’s no more to me,
There was once, but not anymore,
Everything is seen through indifferent eyes,
Faces are blurs, bringing no joy or sadness upon sight,
Yours is the haziest, as I really don’t care,
Nothing inside stirs for you, or worse, for anything,
It’s like freedom with rules.

It isn’t right.

It’s out of character for me, but in character with what you know,
I have changed, along with everything,
Yet I can’t help but wonder what would be if we had met one year earlier,
When the machine ran smoothly, when the missing piece clicked perfectly,
When a check up every now and then did the trick and kept me ticking,
Now I need a break from it all to get myself right,
Every person thinks they can fix me.

They really can’t.

The Game

Of course shame swells inside, like the largest, ugliest of spots,
Of course guilt grows inside, blossoming horribly, like a flower that’s already dead,
The Game is a game that teases at all seconds of every minute within each hour of everyday,
Coaxing you to dark places where your fantasies come true for milliseconds,
Before being snatched away as you sit and wallow in a pool of your own sweat and stupidity,
Cracking after moments or months mends no fences or builds any bridges,
Once or one million times cuts no cloth nor shields the truth from the eyes peering out from you,
As you know the eyes peering back at you are the ones no longer on this Earth,
And are generally the ones you love most in the world;
Yet, embrace and enjoy are the preachers’ words of withered old wisdom,
Youth of innocence and experimentation should not be wasted on the whims of righteousness,
Only I do not have a choice in the matter of feeling right or wrong,
As, whether morally or immorally, whatever way I choose to walk,
The temptresses of The Game come out to play, refusing to grant peace to I,
A person who thinks one thing and acts the other, who says one thing and does the other,
Blind, deaf, gullible, believes what he is told and is not clever enough to figure out the truth,
The Game’s solitary pawn on a board of kings and queens, and bishops who do not give a damn,
As well as those rooks, who are wily and wise to The Game’s tricks and know exactly how to play it without enduring the suffering;
Bedrooms, front rooms, kitchens, gardens, shopping centres, schools, colleges, national institutions, pubs, hospitals, toliets, dance floors, the air, the sea, the ground, the grass,
There are no boundaries where asylum can be sought, there are no windows through which you can jump,
There is no end to the tempting of the temptresses as the temptresses are substituted for carbon copies,
Like remakes are made exactly the same to double the money all over again, only sometimes they fail,
But the temptresses never fail, whether they wait years or centuries, they get to you in the end,
Scratching at the mask you wear in public with the wide smile that says:
‘Hello! I’m happy now! I have always been happy! And I always will be happy!’
Knowing that underneath, you are not so happy, as you are succumbing to The Game’s way,
The way of deceit and cheap pleasures that are truly ironic as they prove an old saying true…

‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’
Work or a game.

Red Tide

Hand held to my cut eyebrow, stemming the red tide,
The cracked pane stares back at me, mocking the damage it has caused,
Outside, the sun shines, but dims with every spell of falling water,
Despite the lack of a grey sky above, supposedly needed to bring the rain;
Gazing through the broken glass, and through the broken swirls of cloud,
Through the forests of the West, where something special should have blossomed,
Through to fertile grass, by the smooth surface of the lake, in that place that never dies,
Even if the people living in or around do face life's one assurance;
Thinking about the brevity of our moments and why they were so,
Dreaming of a time we could have been alone, lying amidst freshly cut blades,
Under a shower of warm drops that would have felt like kisses,
Breathing in air free of the smoke that veils the Black Pool;
In reality, a bandage soaked in blood stings my wound,
Doubling the frustration now reaching its crescendo of helpless hopes,
While the jagged point sticks through some dead skin, held aloft like a trophy,
Celebrating my stupidity in the wet sun light, now gathering gusts to sway the trees,
Blowing leaves away that are no longer strong enough to stay at home;
And I can hear the howling of the wind in opposition to the thoughts rushing through my head,
Wailing louder as the blood rushes from my torn brow, dripping onto my cheek,
Pumping, the gaping hole has a pulse, growing wider with every second,
Everything begins to spin as each red droplet leaves circulation to wander free,
Increasing in speed, as word of emancipation from this body spreads like the Plague,
Until it flows like a river and crashes like a waterfall, drowning in a red wave,
And I wither away, like all the wants I held foolishly onto for so long.

(now I start getting into things that aren't happening and start using objects/events as metaphors).

Swinging

The beat of the music courses through the bodies of everyone,
The floor shakes at the stamping of feet and clapping of hands,
Limbs, out of control, swing and fling,
Torsos move in time with the rhythm,
Interpretations of lyrics and out of tune voices,
Spilled pints and smashed glasses,
Make up the actions of this place’s occupants;
Grinding with women out of my grasp,
Sweat dripping from my fringe to my nose,
Warm breath brushing against my neck as the music escalates,
Breathing gets heavier as the dancing becomes quicker,
Soon, everything is seen in flashes, still images,
Ten blinks per second seem like one hundred,
The faces of the women change from blue to pink,
From red to green, depending on the strobe lights,
And I can no longer dictate what I am doing,
Swinging wildly with the music, eyes practically closed,
Thoughts racing with the temptations of man,
The lights switch off and I am aware of how wet I am.

And I am beyond saving.

No-Man's Land

Empty
- no life beneath the muck or these boots.
Dead
- bones crunch with every step.
Grey
- skies above cry at the blood spilled.

Hope
- none can be found from France to Germany.
Dreams
- a reprise from the rotten reality.
Wishes
- made everyday to no avail.

Screams
- echoing from the past in the presence of the present.
Terror
- as the planes swoop overhead in a replay performance.
Explosions
- flashing in closed eyelids with the burning faces.

Solitude
- friends in arms lie lifeless in arms.
Bliss
- seeing the expanse of this brown and red ground.
Goodbye
- said to the Earth as I fly away one last time.

Amidst fireworks.

Fools

Bodies pushing and pressing,
The crush putting hands in awkward places,
Ignorance’s epitome barges through, shoulder down,
Timid nature is punished for lacking aggression,
Vodka can be smelled in the breath of strangers,
All dressed in flannel shirts, denim skirts, saddle boots and cowboy hats,
All buying into the idea of a good night;
What I really need now is a friend,
One is drunk, dancing to the rhythm, in the bliss of oblivion,
Making sure not to die with his music in him,
Another is further away than I thought, hidden behind glassy eyes,
Silent in my company that once brought animation,
The rest, well, are close in name only, forever drifting,
A growing distance greater than that between Pluto and the Sun,
While faces I know in passing blank me, one by one,
As if we never exchanged pleasantries at any stage in recent memory;
They are all fools, stumbling over words and chairs,
Smashing glasses and relationships simultaneously,
This place is a disaster zone destroyed by naivety,
And its occupants are both the cause and the victims,
And they are the fools for buying into this idea,
Buying the hats, guns, sheriff badges and everything,
All believing this theme will make it ok,
When it doesn’t at all, despite increasing numbers;
Yet, I am the bigger fool because I also bought into the idea,
In the shape of a rip-off Indiana Jones hat,
And I fail to turn up for the ball, yet nobody cares,
Not about me, not about strangers, only about the line dance,
So I lose myself in the crowd, amidst the fools, but away from them too,
Lost in a mass of people too preoccupied with themselves to notice anything else.

(Fools was written after a bad night out - as a sober person, Fools represents the feelings I go might go through on a night out that's not going well).

'Kiss and Make Up'

You and I walk through the night,
Straining our voices to avoid a fight,
Waiting for the wonders of day’s light
To quell our angry hearts.

As the stars shine in the sky above,
We each think we have had enough,
Preferring not to end our love
Over a quarrel about past flings.

Yet our voices grow louder and louder,
Spit lands on your nose’s powder,
An unrestrained shift of the shoulder
And you stumble in your step.

Tears form in your dark blue eyes,
As the moon disappears from the skies,
Our unbreakable bond almost dies
But for the rising of the sun.

We take down our hands to look at one another,
And in the other’s arms we each smother,
Preferring to ignore our maiden mothers
Who believe we are better divided.

Forgetting all the past tricks,
All your unnecessary hair flicks,
And all my old methods for kicks,
Holding onto this precious moment.

And then you make a silly joke,
About how I am a stupid yoke,
And on my own laugh I choke,
As relief washes over us like the rays.

And I seek some paper, pen and place,
To write this red from my face,
And finally have the goodly grace,
To bow and be boisterous.

We let our hands fall away,
Until later on this very day,
When our paths will cross the other’s way,
And we smile while putting this all to bed.

Jump

I see you, as if it actually happened,
The water flowing, at your back,
Standing on limestone, as it fades away,
Before it disappears completely, and we’re in the river,
Passengers of the currents, toward places unknown,
And this brings excitement, as surprises have been too few;
Away we float, following fate,
Holding hands, as the water painlessly pushes,
Foam comes between us, yet does not stop us,
Joy at the present becomes contented ease,
No wish to break the comfort with complications,
Hugging is enough, until the waterfall appears,
And we are too caught in the current to fight back,
The white water clouds the impending flight,
Our eyes meet, brown clashing with blue,
Time to jump.

Irony of the Wait

All this time spent brooding while looking for a shred of hope,
Waiting for the person who could set me off again,
What was felt last Summer is gone, with nothing similar surfacing,
Not even in the kisses of two others, who were only stop gaps,
Stepping stones in the search for something real, something heartfelt;
Patience grew thin as Summer became Autumn,
With no change visible in the passing of the leaves as Winter stormed home,
And flings occurred, before dying in the snow,
To be followed by an indifferent Spring, which rained on myself but on no one else,
And nothing is found, paving the way for Summer to approach again,
With patience and lust seemingly unrewarded;
But then something shone in the West, arriving to me,
Or me to her, in a blaze of something so instantly beautiful,
Destiny calls, in a muffled tone,
As this feels like there was never a time without one another;
A twinge inside, a now foreign feeling, stands solitarily,
In the absence of anything else past and future,
Standing only now in the present, as we revel in something so new,
And it urges me to overcome the nerves that have been dormant for so long,
To take a gamble and go for the first kiss in ten months that would mean something;
We laugh and dance amongst the throng of people,
Forgetting time as it slips away, but people start to say goodnights,
Including her, so I admit defeat and give her a hug,
The night is ending but I don’t want to sleep,
I lie awake and hope our next meeting will be sooner than anticipated;
And I go from West to East, acknowledging the unlikelihood of even one kiss,
But I smile in hope, because hope is all anyone has these days,
At least until something permanent rises and shows me otherwise,
And that something permanent reveals himself the next time I see her,
A good looking blonde, with love in his eyes and passion in his kiss,
That she returns with equal love and passion;
We still have our laughs and dances, we still have our instant bond,
But I know there is no hope,
Because I can see in her gaze toward him the tenderness I once held in mine for another,
And I am happy to see her happy because everyone should be happy,
Even if that is not logically, realistically or feasibly possible,
And I laugh at the irony of the situation,
As having spent so long waiting for a real emotion to return,
I feel it for someone already taken.

I Hate Every Single One of You

I hate you, with the racing thoughts,
I hate you, with the broken panic button,
I hate you, fumbling in the dark,
I hate you, playing games you cannot win,
I hate you, sarcastically imitating the sarcastic ones,
I hate you, smiling as you lie through your teeth,
I hate you, with your rushes of blood to the heads,
I hate you, wandering while sitting in dazes,
I hate you, trying to live in a make believe place,
I hate you, dreaming of being yet succeeding in cowardice,
I hate you, with your pretensions and apprehensions,
I hate you, bowing to their every whim,
I hate you, covering up your faults with minor niceties,
I hate you, breaking those smaller than you to feel big,
I hate you, looking up, down and back more than looking forward,
I hate you, hating myself so much.

He, She, The Runner

The marquee stands erect, white shining against the night,
Inside, people dance without worry or angst,
Leaving aside unsociable talking points to celebrate a birthday,
All bar two, who are missing from the throng,
Their beer bottles missing amidst the empties…

He sinks deeper into depression, hiding in plain sight,
Doing what he hates most because it is all he knows,
Hating the reputation he has inadvertently fostered,
A drunk, a thief, with no morals or cares,
This is not him at all, yet they berate his mistakes for all to judge…

She finds herself back in a situation from the past,
One she thought had been resolved by the passing of time,
But not enough has lapsed, allowing for her lover’s relapse,
Making her mascara run onto her cheeks one more time,
And she seeks help from a room of people who really do not care…

He sits in the back garden, outside the buzz and tumble of the marquee,
On a swinging seat that he hopes will swing his sorrows away;
It fails to, and he searches for solace in every can of Strongbow,
Finding nothing but a deeper hole than the one he had already been in,
There is no arrogance here…

She passes through the bodies of the party goers,
Seemlessly, like a ghost, transparency and sadness unnoticed by the ossified,
She heads for the front room, where jackets and a piano rest,
And plays the saddest, loneliest chords she knows,
As she attempts to make one final decision for better or worse…

He thinks escape is the answer; she thinks an end is the answer.
The runner in-between withdraws from a lack of better logic.

He Wrote in Vain

He spins in his grave as the scandals rush to the headlines,
Backstabbing, money-grabbing launderers,
Oppressors bailing out the wrong people,
While the innocent are the sufferers;
He looks up from the dirt of the underground,
And is glad he is buried beneath the heartless,
His words on the failings of society,
Mean nothing to those now defenceless;
He broke his back working in London and Paris,
Scraping a living while earning nothing,
Then he gained respect for his outlook on our world,
Yet clearly we all missed something.

He wrote in vain, he wrote in vain,
As governments around the world claim
The public’s interests are the main,
Despite debating how best to gain
Some form of profit from this lost game.

Leaders with souls clear as glass materialise,
With grand schemes and plans to retrieve us,
But they too fail and wilt in the raging storm,
Breaking speech and poster earned trust;
He foresaw the consequences of self obsession,
Of robbing a purse for the sake of a penny,
Yet his words were never heeded by those in charge,
Leaving poverty at the doors of the regular Joe and Jenny;
And now the machine steams through to rectify the wrongs,
Stealing from the poor to finance the solution,
‘We all need to sacrifice’ is the message they propagate,
Buying entirely into non-sacrificial delusion.

He wrote in vain, he wrote in vain,
As governments around the world claim
The public’s interests are the main,
Despite debating how best to gain
Some form of profit from this lost game.

He closes his all knowing eyes in disgust,
As queues increase and jobs decrease,
He rolls over and attempts to die again,
As fees go up and protests cease;
A mentality of acceptance begins to spread,
Taking what’s given without thought or action,
He gives up on people all over again,
As no one revolts or forms a faction;
And hope is lost for humanity now,
As governments succeed in silencing the outspoken,
And his readings may as well burn in hell,
As a final reminding token.

He wrote in vain, he wrote in vain,
As governments around the world claim
The public’s interests are the main,
Despite debating how best to gain
Some form of profit from this lost game.

Black Hand

Exhausted eyes fight the self-imposed night,
Losing a minute with every seeming second,
Thoughts cease, movements slow,
The off button is pushed; the on button breaks,
A sudden flash of something strange,
A grotesque limb never seen before;
A hand, skinny, black, with white cuts or scabs,
Reaches across the table where I sit, my arms resting,
And picks up a box of cigarettes that did not exist in real time,
Before vanishing, leaving behind a confused pair of eyes;
The hallucination ended as soon as it begun,
Yet it burned itself inside my lids, smoking,
A direct address is dismissed with a disturbing smile,
And a blatant lie,
A world of my own has just showed me signs of a smoke-out,
Now I just want to know where the fire extinguisher is.

(the incident that inspired this poem was bizarre and it happened literally as I describe it - I'd been out the night before and was nearly falling asleep in the seminar the next day when I saw a split second image of a black hand picking up a box of cigarettes, and I have no idea why I would see something like that).