Bedroom Door

I stare at my bedroom door, mostly shut
but partially open - too frightened to
peak around its edge because I believe
there is somebody beyond the threshold
whom I do not want to see anymore.
I continue to stare at my bedroom
door, my logic lost amidst the many
permutations of these complications,
swirling in the abyss of never again,
never to be and never was in the
first place, misplaced in a time of my own
manufacture from my own dreams which slip
away as sleep itself becomes a dream;
impossible in the warm summer nights
spent idly reading, writing and playing
virtual football with virtual players
who are still so much better than my real
self and my own mishap filled control.
So I stare at my bedroom door, wanting
to leave while knowing it would mean coming
face-to-face with those who will devalue me,
abuse me, assault me, those who say they
care - and mean it too - but who will never
have the means to make their sense see my sense.
And even though I know that my landing
is as empty at three in the morning
as it was when I first became entranced
by the known unknown beyond, I just stand
and stare rather than open it wide to
reveal no apparition as I fear the
meaning of its absence’ enforced admission.

Ice

Skidding on ice under a yellow moon,
Hearing confessions of a drunken loon,
Drunk no more, or so he says,
Middle move made in a game of chess.

Bitter wind bites as we slide through the night,
Deductions made in darkest respite,
Grand plans elaborated in excited deception,
To see all and feel all the hopeful conception.

A year now past looked upon with waste,
Regrets a-many, made in haste,
Betrayals begotten but not yet forgotten,
Betrayals bestowed bring feelings rotten.

Our conclusion skids into parting view,
A handshake click and we know what to do,
Skate forward on ice till it all melts away,
Look ahead, not back, live only for today.

To spend ten years living, and ten surveying,
‘Cause the ten spent dreaming lie behind, decaying.

(myself and Anto Gallagher were chatting after seeing Sherlock Holmes about what the future held for us - Ice is the conversation and the circumstances surrounding it).

Like a Piano

She plays a game,
Confusing him,
It’s all the same,
He never wins.

He accepts this,
No other choice,
He loves her kiss,
Sound of her voice.

He’s her doormat,
A back-up man,
‘What are you at?’
They say to Fran.

And he’s played like a piano.
Every key knotting him tighter.
And he has nowhere else to go.
He’s too weak to stand and fight her.

She enjoys it,
Dice dominance,
Breaks every bit,
Price prominence.

Syllables’ ease,
Control his thoughts,
Deathly disease,
Drives him to noughts.

No way out now,
Lonely in love,
Get out somehow,
It’s not enough.

And he’s played like a piano.
Every key knotting him tighter.
And he has nowhere else to go.
He’s too weak to stand and fight her.

(this was a reminiscence of an old romance, a realisation of how it was, letting go of what I thought it was).