Walls

Obstacles before me

Loom large in the present,

Wearing me down; but

Not you, from the crescent:

The loveable rogue,

My best friend,

Who tore down walls

To get to the end.

For a time you were lost,

Unsure of your fate,

Aimless in action,

Then acting too late:

But not anymore,

My best friend;

You tore down your walls

To get to the end:

Where I need to be,

Beyond all fear;

I see you succeed

And know hope is near.

Now thanks to you,

My best friend,

I will tear down walls

To get to the end.

Rat Race

We sit on steps, surveying the chaos
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?

A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.

And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.

Red Moon

Conversation carries us along the
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.


(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)

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).

Loveable Rogue

He spends his nights marauding and masquerading,
Absolute ossification allows an escape into a world where he cannot be hurt,
In the process, an image of himself as a joker is projected,
His drunken alter ego dives into oblivion and creates a persona of arrogance,
Leading many to believe he is heartless;
Years are spent living this life, drunken blur after drunken blur,
Deceiving himself into thinking it was all he wanted,
While inside, a battle between what is and what he wants to be
Rages and destroys the notions he once lived so comfortably and happily by;
A craving for a past framed only in memory
Devours his mind night and day,
A desire for things out of reach at present but possible in the future
Consumes his thoughts morning and evening,
And a wish to be something more than he is in the eyes of those nearest to him
Burns inside every second of every minute of every lonesome hour,
Accompanied by reminders of events gone by that have shaped the person he is now;
All he wants is a change, a chance to start anew,
To lose the persona he hides behind and to lose those he no longer holds so dear,
And to regain former glories that now gather dust
In the dark recesses of a mind drowning in a lack of comprehension…

(this is one of two poems published in DCU Book Society's 2009 anthology - to be published two years running is something I'm proud of, though if a person called Anto Gallagher ever claims to be the loveable rogue and, by association, my muse just ignore him).