Unhooked

“Darling, you left the phone unhooked again,”
She whispers, as her hand slips into mine.
I think to myself that looking is free,
Of course, but that acting comes with reason
And freedom’s worth could not bear her losses.

Here I lie, in her arms, feather in cap,
Its placement a pitiful performance,
A periphery outside her own game.
Sight was becoming only in tears, then,
As my ears walked a musical landscape.

The striking piano chord locks me in,
Holding me closer than her deathly arms.
I feel trapped in a cocoon of indifference
The more I consider this ritual
Of ours, a haunting weekly procession.

My mind’s eye beholds the empty spaces,
A futile dream as they are to me, yet
I shall not stop dreaming till they are real.
A moment approaches where idleness
Ceases, and escape can be grasped by hands.

Freedom should be mine by right, not by chance.

(after three and a half years Francis Reilly (me!) has discovered iambic pentametre, and this is his first attempt at writing a poem within this structure - needless to say, Francis should read more then come back and try again).

Friend's Reality

Before and after,
Veiled from each other,
A black blanket,
Shadows in between,
Selfish thoughts fade away,
Centrality ceases as a
New death comes to me,
A friend’s reality.

In my mind’s eye I can see,
In my mind’s eye I can see
A broken smile…

Cracked denial.

One hundred strangers never faltered,
One hundred strangers never faltered
It before…

At their doors.

All around her is just one face,
All around her is just one face,
Her father’s face…

Out of place.

(a good friend of mine wrote a terrific instrumental song and these are lyrics I tried to write to them - if you heard the song you'd understand why they are the way they are, but I have no means to show you the song as he has yet to upload it onto his MySpace page).

Raining

It is raining outside, yet another death in the world,
This one close to the heart but far from home;
Not a direct blow but as good as a knife through
The chest the memories it revives are so sharp.
Drops from the sky and drops from my friend’s eyes
Coincide in a harmonic lament for a loving father,
Whose fight for life was finally lost in the warmth
Of his own bed, his daughter by his side, fighting tears;
She lost her fight when he lost his, and a steady stream
Rolled down her cheek as the flat line lived up to its name.
The greyest day seems fitting to the current circumstance
As it is almost as if the sky weeps in compassion, joining her
And all her family and friends in harbouring this emptiness,
While the news and reality sit in my stomach, weights in waiting
For a call to arms or for time to just pass as it always does.
Maybe it was sudden or maybe it was expected - either way
The rain that falls today is in his memory and in her sympathy.

(a close friend of mine had some very sad news to tell me the other day).

Bray Stones

Smoothest stones in the country are found in Bray,
Subtly crafted by the lapping waves, constant,
Rounding off the sharp edges and corners,
Perfect for spinning along the ocean’s cover.
A sign was erected denying access to these stones,
The last time I set foot here was with my father
Over ten years ago, on a sunnier day in simpler times;
I remember no sign stopping us that day, as we
Skimmed stone after stone across the sea’s surface
Like time would never end and the supply would
Never dry up, no matter how bright the sun above shone.
And I took one of these stones home, coloured it blue
With a marker I had, as if its hard softness did not
Make it unique enough to be worthy of sentiment.
My only other memory of that trip apart from today
Is of my father calling me as I wandered off on a tangent,
Back towards the train station, for no apparent reason.

Bray looks so different on a darker day, through adult eyes
And in a changed company of people - those stones now seem
So far away, as my friends prefer the allure of alcohol
And loop hole drugs to the plainer pleasure of stone throwing,
Even though those stones are the key to unlocking ease.
When spaced-out ossification is achieved, thieving machines
Are turned to in search of a time-killing buzz, with five cent
Coins thrown away in their twenties in return for five back
And a victory in falsified circumstance and programmed luck.
One look around and you can see the lives they have stolen
From the locals, some of whom are in their fifties and have
Been sitting in the same seats since their twenties, praying
In vain for the luck and the payoff to aid their never-to-be escape.
These machines play music all ‘round us, telling us who the
Big winners and losers are, which machines are paying out
And which are holding back, even though the system is always
Dominant over us land-locked folk who dream of sailing away.

(I went to Bray today - read what it made me think).

Politics of the Dancefloor

All around the wandering eyes and counterfeit smiles
Wink and are raised in the opening exchanges of war,
Until the smoke increases and screens the targets
For all of one minute - a rare reprieve on the floor.
The circle of friends that started the night together slowly
Breaks apart and enter individual duals with the creeps,
Thoughts dominated by the singular action that makes
A mediocre-to-good night a memorable night.
All the build up centres around this accomplishment
By the night’s end or else the peers of the pretenders
Mock any failures and ignore any excuses - even if it is as
Simple a thing as feelings for a certain person or just a
Genuine indifference to the outcome of the floor battle.
“Unacceptable!” is the reaction in mind; a homosexual jibe
The standard physical outburst - and that is how this jungle of
Faceless people operate in nightclubs, as they dread ridicule of
A queer nature from their fake friends, who only seem to
Care about the looks of their acquired target come the last beat.
Years of ossification surveillance in sobriety have led me to
Conclude that the politics of the dancefloor are more complex
Than those of our own government; officials could never hope
To truly comprehend how one drink can lead to a desired outcome,
Or how one well-timed cigarette could lead to a woman in your bed,
Or how basic sly manoeuvres on the floor will allow you to come
Face-to-face, body-to-body with your target - and, most of all,
The officials will never understand how confidence is the key
To victory because they fail to inspire it in the people, who seek it,
Instead, on the dancefloor where anybody can feel like God.