When is Too Many?

So, there I am, right,
It’s four o’clock in the day,
I’m staring at this computer screen in a friend’s house,
A middle-aged man’s wife has just left him,
And he can’t remember the cause,
If it triggered him or if he pulled the trigger, making her leave.
Everything since the day she walked away is a blur,
One giant blur, every second culminating at a bottle’s end.
Vodka is water, and he drinks like a fish,
Resulting in his being fired from doing what he loves.
Pretty sad, yeah, but he gets a hefty pay-off,
So he ups and leaves, to hit Vegas, to “drink himself to death”,
Not before burning all of the things he doesn’t want to bring,
Including a picture of him and his wife together.
He can’t tell whether or not he was drunk in that photo,
And he doesn’t really care as the flames lick through the centre of the picture,
Splitting them, then disintegrating them,
Exactly like he wanted, exactly how it was.
So he goes to Vegas, four weeks worth of money,
His aim to be broke and dead by the four weeks’ end,
And there is no Hollywood recovery for this man,
He dies in a crappy motel room in the arms of a hooker he hardly knows,
But who he claims to love.
And then my friend walks in, secretly upset, his tenth bottle in hand.

Got to Be

Swings her hips,
And looks to me,
Then she says,
It’s just you and me now,
Then I see,
That we are free,
And I know,
It’s got to be we now.

It’s got to be this time.
It’s got to be this time.

In her eyes,
Sudden surprise,
As she sees,
There are no lies now,
Only love,
She doesn’t want,
And she knows,
It’s never or now.

It’s got to be this time.
It’s got to be this time.

(I allowed myself a return to Joy Division mode one day - I wrote this while listening to Ceremony so these words can fit in with the music of that song).

Wave of Changes

I wake, two sets of eyes,
One in the present, living,
Another in hindsight, observing,
One set living through it all,
Another watching it happen again,
One set ignorant to time,
Another pining for it back.

A green container home to a team,
Harboured by children, then by teens,
Moved, replaced by a running track,
An artificial river and a grey building,
All more efficient in their use,
Yet none replicating that feeling of home,
Or the memories of past matches.

And one set of eyes live through the changes unawares.
And another set watches them all through streaming tears.

A class of seventeen, separated by circumstance,
In need of knitting, it never sowed,
Groups of four and groups of one,
A unison only found in its division,
Both sets of eyes sadly agreeing,
Three from seventeen is a bare figure,
Where did the other fourteen go?

A girl younger than I, flaming on top,
Is pregnant, when she herself is no woman,
A child inside a child, not nature’s way,
Another girl, a year older than I,
Has two already, with more to come,
The sets of eyes have yet to live life,
The girls will never get a chance.

And both sets of eyes turn as sirens come to punish the same crime.
And both sets of eyes can only watch another wave of change pass them by.

Sky Stands Still

The sky stands still while cars zoom slowly by,
A scene painted in tranquillity with the volume muted,
Seven swallows’ wings flap silently in formation,
Working together like a beautifully well-oiled machine,
Not something one sees everyday.

The sun peaks a select few rays around the clouds,
Groping for a place to shine without being too bright,
Children clasp parents’ hands for fear of falling,
Youthful innocence taken away one year earlier all the time,
A terrible truth in a changing world.

The train roars underneath the bridge, shattering reveries,
Carrying people to destinations they could walk to if they tried,
Two individuals stroll separately from the local church,
The grip of religion dying bit-by-bit, day-by-day,
An acceptance of its diminished role growing with age.

The wind whips up the Autumn leaves in golden turrets,
Little tornadoes brushing off society’s various visages,
Some of whom deal in the dark with hands well hidden,
Hoods thrown over the masks circumstance has given them,
Their true faces lost beneath the corruption money brings.

And all the while the sky stands resolutely still with a shifting scowl,
Day and night, the only thing here not to have changed with time.

(I was collecting my little brother Conor from school - as I came over the Hump-back Bridge heading into Baldoyle I looked at the sky and it looked like a perfect painting).

Three Minutes, Fifty-Four Seconds

Strings gentle begin as I lay with closed eyes,
Seeing twenty years unfold in three minutes fifty four seconds,
Memories of a youth of spoils come back to me,
Reminding me of the difficulties I posed to the deaf and dumb;
Four silent years marked me out as a mute boy,
The other sixteen have been spent making up for lost time,
Except when the Big Man took his unnecessary leave,
All went quiet then, bar the rain drops,
Rolling down my bedroom window like tears on trembling cheeks,
As I gazed blankly away;
The soundtrack to anything becomes a song for me,
Things clear when a crescendo begins its slow ascent,
Especially the mistakes made in departments supposedly superior to the standard;
The yells that leave my mouth in anger are just like the Big Man’s,
He bubbles beneath my surface, holding a grip from his grave,
It contorts my face and raises my swearing,
Bringing fear to my brothers’ eyes, his sons’ eyes,
A leader exists only in the past;
Even though my lids are shut, this all plays like a reel in a cinema,
Never a dull moment, only the pictures and the music,
The happy times play their part and I see for the first time my own face light up,
While in real time, a solitary drop escapes through a crack in my lashes,
As never before did I notice the emotions that are visible in my expressions,
My face is like a book of poetry,
Each wrinkle containing all the joy I never thought would leave,
The glow flickering in my eyes really believing this;
The same score, the same three minutes fifty four seconds,
Represents everything I have ever done, happy or sad, good and bad,
The excited laughs and the tortured empty stares fit into this one piece,
The losses, the gains, the things that just remain, resolute in their permanence,
Because those three minutes fifty four seconds play in repeat in my mind.

To a Destination

A fox lies dead in the middle of the carriage way,
Ears pricked up to hear it all pass by,

As windmills at the heart of the ocean spin clockwise,
Electricity defying conduction and the currents,

And a cathedral stands tall against the painted evening sky,
Goers looking up, enlightened, while the priest skulks away,

Fields of gold rolling across his eyes’ sight, and further again,
While cattle and sheep graze the day away, every day,

A lone mountain looms larger, shadow outreaching,
Blocking out all sunlight, darkness devouring all the cars,

With castle ruins, crumbled and broken, regaining their former glory,
Horses’ gallops shaking the Earth to protect a reborn kingdom,

Overlooked by a giant oak tree, offering a throne that sees everything,
Out to the soulless sea and beyond the heartless horizon,

Watching the three cars line up two hundred kilometres down the road,
Uniting in friendship and in a journey to one destination,

Every action taken in blatant disregard to the bordered up houses in the empty town,
Always thinking of the Worm’s Hill that awaits them at this trip’s end,

Its sheer being coincidence enough to warrant a visit.

They Don't Know

Rumours are rife that the dark days are gone,
Yet this city, ugly, pulses nightly,
They can’t see where it all went wrong,
So I, arrogantly, ignore them blindly.

Knowing they don’t know.

Running wild across my mind’s landscape,
Pondering, always, how to escape this maze,
They can’t see my mentality’s shape,
So I, crazed, just give them a blank gaze.

Knowing they don’t know.

Sleepless hours thinking about sleepless hours,
The walls, looming, suffocate the brooding,
They can’t see the moment where it sours,
So I, losing, smirk and keep musing.

Knowing they don’t know.

Everybody believes they deserve what they have,
Yet I, daily, resent what I alone gave me,
They can all see a reason for having what I have,
Yet I, save me, know I don’t deserve me.

So I’ll go, knowing they’ll never know.

Old Romantic

An old romantic born in the wrong decade
tries to swoon the one he desires with roses and chocolates
while everyone he knows cringes in embarrassment.

She just smiles politely and accepts the gifts,
unsure of whether or not she should speak up now
and let him know this is far from what she had in mind.

He continues to wine and dine her in futile hope,
seeking to sweep her off her feet and carry her over the threshold
to lay by her side having made beautiful, passionate love all night long.

She sits quietly in false pretence while he writes the cheque,
afraid of breaking a wonderful heart who wants to bring only joy
to her life, a smile to her lips and love to her world.

And as he approaches her door, hand clasped in hers,
he swoops for a kiss that he has imagined in his mind
over and over, believing his dreams were about to come true.

But she stops him, as she was always going to,
a lone tear welling in her eye, and she says sorry
over and over, one thousand times in all before shutting her door.

And that night they slept in separate beds three streets away
from each other, both thinking of the other but for different reasons,
One living in lust, the other wishing for love and someone to hold.

(this is the poem I wrote having watched 500 Days of Summer).

There We Go

There we go, hand in hand,
Walking along the endless sand,
Moving in slow motion now,
Embracing this, kissing her brow.

Side-by-side at the tide’s edge,
Making to each other an undying pledge,
To never let go no matter what,
Even if in life’s rush we’re caught.

All of this is recorded on tape,
It now provides a grateful escape,
When things fail to go as right,
I can replay this moment and remember that night.

I smile watching myself kneel before her,
Producing a ring to secure our future,
A solitary tear rolls down my cheek,
As she bursts out crying, unable to speak.

And no matter how many colours life refuses to show,
I can turn on this tape and just watch us go.

Shades

A pair of shades plonked on my face while I lay blinded,
Stopping beams to let me see through a cold light of clarity,
A ceiling awash with shining brightness is reduced to pockets,
And I can finally gaze upon my friends’ faces without fear.

A feeling erupts in my chest with ever increasing drumming,
Pieces are preciously placed within the well-worked gear box in my head,
A year behind is left behind with the dead, gone and loveless,
And I can finally look forward with trusted people at my side.

Songs selected are more positive than at anytime in recent memory,
Beats and rhythms, laughing and singing, preferred to introverted piano sounds,
Companionship and dancing sought instead of silence in solitude,
And I can finally move freely without thinking of only gaining.

Every thought, choice and action is carried out to live right here and now,
Every jaunt and venture undertaken to create memories to cherish in old age,
Reckless abandon is the only philosophy adopted by any of us,
And I can finally follow it without any self inhibitions and sly intentions.

A pair of shades plonked on my face have restored my sight's line.

(I was in a friend's house, lying flat on my back on his bedroom floor while six close friends sat on two beds, one either side, three and three - somebody plonked a pair of sunglasses over my eyes and the idea for Shades came to me).

The Coast

Walk out along soaked sand and dead sea weed,
Out to the vast and endless sea,
And wonder while you walk in shallow puddles,
Does anybody ever stay to watch them roar?

As others walk their dogs along the coast,
One old man walks his on the seabed,
Fearless of the tide’s unpredictability,
Dispelling irrational fears.

A woman collects shells inside the coast wall,
Each shell reminding her of a friend,
Everyday she finds four new shells,
To leave on four friends’ graves.

Shadows of ravens soar in the sunlight,
Ominous in their black pack,
One white gull follows slowly behind,
Encouraging in its caw.

As you smile at seeing such relieving sights,
A sunbeam flashes for a split second across the sky,
In its shape you recognise your father,
And you know everything will be ok.

And leaving your stepped seat four rows down,
Will make you feel ten feet tall when the time is right.

SBS

I walk, and then we stop to admire,
You talk, and then we kiss to aspire,
Want to, but then we just have to give up,
Need to, but then we admit being stuck.

Walking backwards along tightropes,
Below, pure concrete coaxes, and I’m scared.

We go, and run right and left on a split path,
We sow, and shout and scream until we just laugh,
Want you, but my laugh is sad and resigned,
Need you, but my life has been pre-tuned and refined.

Swimming against the current in the ocean,
Below, circle the sharks, with teeth bared.

You leave, and ignore my calls to stay with me,
I grieve, and slowly start to drown in this empty sea,
Want friends, but fail to find any in this lashing rain,
Need friends, but find myself deserted with nothing to gain.

Standing on the brink of existence covered in cloud,
Below, my friends laugh, my loathing shared.

No Finale

Tossing and turning, hours restless,
First sleepless night in seven years,
One that has been coming a long time,
Overbearing heat betters me at last,
Radiating from my body;
Insomnia caused by fatigue during peace,
Only the sound of raindrops outside,
While somewhere across the world,
Gunfire and bombs, screaming and crying,
Keeps a child awake all night, every morning,
Listening as the woman he saw carrying water home,
Is drowned out of all existence;
Outside, in the wind, a plane flies,
Bringing people home to their families,
Outside that child’s home, planes swoop with intent,
Barrels unloaded on the armed and unarmed,
The pilot incapable of deciphering a difference anymore;
Insomnia in isolation is a nuisance,
Insomnia by war is crippling,
With no finale.

Window

The one window that allows stars to watch me sleep,
The mattress, weightless, falls away, making me fall too,
Bottomless, into the trap of being too comfortable.

They wink, candles of the night sky, lulling me to falsity,
Hanging there, unmoving and unwavering to thoughts or wishes,
Actions are impossible in this suspension of all drive.

Lead filled lids crash and grate with every forced re-opening,
With dreams tantalisingly close before I take them away,
Open eyes fixed on those unreachable stars, that unreachable space.

The only time in my life they watch me while I gaze back,
No curtains, no roofs, no street lights, no clouds, no moon, no obstruction,
Just our sights’ lines, meeting, overlapping, crossing and telling.

Telling me to forget their existence, and to just travel the distance.

(I was staying over in a friend's house and he was kind enough to give me a bed - while looking out of the window beside my bed it occurred to me that it was the first time I had ever been able to gaze at the stars while lying down to go to sleep).

Spent Hours

An hour spent queuing to spend an hour queuing,
An hour spent queuing to spend an hour shoving,
An hour spent shoving to spend an hour drinking,
An hour spent drinking to spend an hour dancing,
Only there are no seconds left come the drinking hour’s end,
So why bother at all?

We could be laying on sand, listening to the sea,
Gazing at the moon staring at its own reflection,
While white stars flicker above, on and off,
Like candles in the sky, lights lasting the length of the night,
Out on the beach, where there are no set hours,
Only our own judgement, young, naïve, filled with dancing.

But we spent the hour queuing,
Just to leave five minutes later, complaining.

Maintenance

Maintenance,
So high,
Pressure,
So much,
Constant,
So pointless,
Maintenance.

Never a moment’s peace.
Never a moment’s rest.
Never a moment released,
Never a moment caressed.

Only repetition.

Maintenance,
Unrelenting,
Attention,
Unceasing,
Paranoia,
Dominating,
Maintenance

There she goes, a happy excuse,
There she goes, a sorry face,
There she goes, a relieved refuse,
There she goes, a futile chase.

Always insufficient.

Maintenance,
Mends mind,
Footsteps,
Follow futility,
Envy,
Endless effort,
Maintenance.

Locked door without a dweller,
Locked door without a key,
Locked door without endeavour,
Locked door without a dream.

Distorted disposition.

Locked

Locked, the door and this house, in need of maintenance by one, who refuses to do the job while being unaware of this decision, living blissfully ignorant to that which looks them in the eye, smiling while lying, crying because of the dying feeling surrounding the house, incapable of breaking down the locked door with the battering ram approach which served so well in the past, but has now become obsolete with the passing of people and time, both as irretrievable as each other, yet both the only ones with the power to unlock the door to this locked house, as one is one, but has always been many, just at different intervals with bigger or smaller locks, depending on the circumstance and time of when the first meeting took place, with the early years spent falling hopelessly and the more recent encounters spent pushing potential away out of fear of producing more pieces for the house's mantel.

(not really a poem, more so a long winded sentence - the point was to say everything in one breath to get the effect of a person either shouting or pleading uncontrollably).

I Need to Thank You

I need to thank you,
Freezing shoulder makes me see,
Recalling my poor handling,
The mistakes it led to and the rolling eyes,
Can’t be everybody’s friend,
Especially not after a three week silence,
Can’t be perfect all the time,
Especially not at the age of nineteen,
An insult-cum-joke becomes an insult again,
Only with direct aim, at my big heart,
Not spiteful enough to keep quiet,
Yet spiteful enough to be minimalist,
And it hurts more than speeding bullets,
Knowing how I failed others’ perceptions,
Indifferent to the mistake itself for so long,
Uncaring to its effect on you,
But sad at letting everyone down,
Even though they don’t even know,
Ignorance is bliss but I can’t ignore this,
And I need to thank you,
For reinforcing my logic in shutting up shop.

Glow

Glimmering glow gliding gracefully,
Through the tomb toward the top,
Washing waywardly while wishing wistfully,
Hoping her hidden home hides here.

Living lustfully like lung looping liars,
Tormented thoughts throng through tiles,
Badgering bottomless bastards become bedfellows,
Seeking stoppage so solitude solely survives.

Dreams die deserted, defeated, destroyed,
Partial pieces patching past participations,
Clarifying concerns considered closely, constantly,
Bringing broken bails before backtracking boys.

Dream Screen

One sad thing about this life we live,
It has lived for so long before us now,
The word love is dead and gone,
Along with all the meaning it once held.

All I have ever wanted is to feel love,
From a young age, that is all I have ever hoped for,
Maybe if I was born in a different decade,
I could feel in return what comes out too often.

I want the fantasies we see on television everyday,
The job, the home, the wife, the children, everything,
My time has not yet come, and I fear it never will,
As love extends only to infatuation these days.

The film reel turns, playing back to me my birthday,
I slip into sleep and live my dreams there,
And it is no longer my birthday past I see on the screen,
But the future I wake up everyday hoping to be in.

That dream screen smiles at me without malice,
Showing me that our capacity to love has not yet died,
Only that it is ignored by most, who maybe fear its power,
And I know that once I embrace it and know people who embrace it too…

We can be anything we want to be.