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.
Showing posts with label twentieth page. Show all posts
Showing posts with label twentieth page. Show all posts
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Singledom
A long silence suddenly broken in a fit of realisation
That this lengthy period of liberation means literally anything
Is within your grasp if you so choose.
Singledom means no responsibility to yourself or others
And allows you to flaunt whatever it is you think you have
That will appeal to the wandering male eyes of my county.
Yet your sudden decision to defy your isolation and
Seek me out baffles - unless it is me you want, which would make
Sense as I have a place where we can go when the night’s too old.
You hope our past can remain exactly where it lies,
Forgotten in dusty old notebooks and poems yellowing
On their pages, fictitious stories of recovered love never lived in reality.
How can those feelings, now overcome but still repressed within,
Be ignored for this so called celebration of single life?
The experience initially cut but never scarred, yet left behind
A life lesson not worth dismissing for the sake of a night fumbling
Between sheets, committing an act we never even committed when together.
My understanding of my own personality has led me to believe
Solitude is better than seeking something paranoia will convince me
Is lost before it is even attained, so why test it so severely with you,
The one time key holder?
(it's funny how things turn 'round yet stay exactly the same).
That this lengthy period of liberation means literally anything
Is within your grasp if you so choose.
Singledom means no responsibility to yourself or others
And allows you to flaunt whatever it is you think you have
That will appeal to the wandering male eyes of my county.
Yet your sudden decision to defy your isolation and
Seek me out baffles - unless it is me you want, which would make
Sense as I have a place where we can go when the night’s too old.
You hope our past can remain exactly where it lies,
Forgotten in dusty old notebooks and poems yellowing
On their pages, fictitious stories of recovered love never lived in reality.
How can those feelings, now overcome but still repressed within,
Be ignored for this so called celebration of single life?
The experience initially cut but never scarred, yet left behind
A life lesson not worth dismissing for the sake of a night fumbling
Between sheets, committing an act we never even committed when together.
My understanding of my own personality has led me to believe
Solitude is better than seeking something paranoia will convince me
Is lost before it is even attained, so why test it so severely with you,
The one time key holder?
(it's funny how things turn 'round yet stay exactly the same).
Ducks
They fly in perfect formation,
Elegance ensues as they harmonise,
Through the rain, hail and snow they fly,
Breaking ranks for no element,
Only shifting places when injury or illness
Befalls a member of the flying V.
Vision unimpaired by man’s machines,
Their air polluted all the same,
Yet still, they fly together.
And even when war breaks out amongst the masses,
Ducks fly together,
And when death strikes at the wrong time,
Ducks fly together,
And when it’s all said and done,
When the war is lost or won,
Ducks fly together,
Ignorant to our species’ deficiencies.
(the Mighty Ducks inspired this - three movies for a fiver in Tescos is never a bad deal).
Elegance ensues as they harmonise,
Through the rain, hail and snow they fly,
Breaking ranks for no element,
Only shifting places when injury or illness
Befalls a member of the flying V.
Vision unimpaired by man’s machines,
Their air polluted all the same,
Yet still, they fly together.
And even when war breaks out amongst the masses,
Ducks fly together,
And when death strikes at the wrong time,
Ducks fly together,
And when it’s all said and done,
When the war is lost or won,
Ducks fly together,
Ignorant to our species’ deficiencies.
(the Mighty Ducks inspired this - three movies for a fiver in Tescos is never a bad deal).
Friday, January 22, 2010
Memory
He sits alone, looking through old photographs,
Memories masquerading in his mind with every past picture,
Names written in sand, long lost cycles that seemed endless,
People now forgotten who were once irreplaceable,
All beyond the reach of his hands so used to being safe.
Emotions felt during those times are filed away in the
Annals of his brain, stored separately to be called up
When necessary in the world of conversation.
Yet here he sits in solitude, solemn as he remembers it all
In one giant reminiscing spree, pulling apart the files,
Blurring everything together into one stream of recollection,
And he realises his life’s feeble efforts have extended to
Recreating those peaks of happiness in a permanent state.
His epiphany comes in that dark room, lit only by the screen,
Staring at picture after picture as the resentment steadily builds
Toward the people within them, whose stillness gives them
The perpetual happiness he craves, captured forevermore;
But the realisation soon sets in, he will never succeed in stopping time.
His destiny is to chase the moments as he lives them until
They become the very pictures he gazes at now, the memories
Abounding in a mocking fashion day in, day out, until he eventually
Becomes too old to run anymore and the chase moves beyond him.
Then he will be stuck with the memories he chased into eternity,
And with a growing hatred for memory, as he wonders what the point
In living life in bursts of highs and lows is when liberation lies
In forgetting each day every day - so he would never know what he lost.
(this poem I wrote literally yesterday).
Memories masquerading in his mind with every past picture,
Names written in sand, long lost cycles that seemed endless,
People now forgotten who were once irreplaceable,
All beyond the reach of his hands so used to being safe.
Emotions felt during those times are filed away in the
Annals of his brain, stored separately to be called up
When necessary in the world of conversation.
Yet here he sits in solitude, solemn as he remembers it all
In one giant reminiscing spree, pulling apart the files,
Blurring everything together into one stream of recollection,
And he realises his life’s feeble efforts have extended to
Recreating those peaks of happiness in a permanent state.
His epiphany comes in that dark room, lit only by the screen,
Staring at picture after picture as the resentment steadily builds
Toward the people within them, whose stillness gives them
The perpetual happiness he craves, captured forevermore;
But the realisation soon sets in, he will never succeed in stopping time.
His destiny is to chase the moments as he lives them until
They become the very pictures he gazes at now, the memories
Abounding in a mocking fashion day in, day out, until he eventually
Becomes too old to run anymore and the chase moves beyond him.
Then he will be stuck with the memories he chased into eternity,
And with a growing hatred for memory, as he wonders what the point
In living life in bursts of highs and lows is when liberation lies
In forgetting each day every day - so he would never know what he lost.
(this poem I wrote literally yesterday).
Spin the Bottle
Cranium subsides to the bottle and the home truths come to light
Along with dares carefully avoided until one steps into the trap,
Caught in the spite that she boldly declared she would face.
The blonde minx sits in her birthday dress, made a fool of already by all,
Even her own lover - she feels knifed but now has the youngest of us
Bound by the rules of the game and the scorn of her own dismissal.
The minx looks from she who is trapped to me and back again,
Smirking as the thought process comes to its awkward climax.
The trapped one will be freed from her brashness only if she
Crosses the room to where I sit - and kisses either crotch or lips!
A momentary pause as myself and the trapped one mull this over,
Carefully avoiding each other’s eyes for fear of making something
Uncomfortable into something overbearing - and the minx just laughs,
Claiming her curiosity lies only in the choice the trapped one makes.
Cornered with only two options, the trapped one makes a snap decision,
Downing her drink to build up some Dutch courage and marches towards
Me.
And I sit in stunned silence, unable to move - not that I wished to.
The trapped one had caught my eye earlier in the night out in the snow
When she missed me with a poorly aimed snowball, resulting in her flight.
My throw was truer than hers had been, but her laugh - inexplicable.
A feeling erupted inside of me, one that had been dormant for so long,
And I cut through snow like hot water, leaving steam trailing in my wake.
A joy for life was reborn that I had only grasped in my most recent dreams,
Ironically which were about the minx, so tenacious in her pursuit of controversy.
Yet the trapped one, still so free while flying in the snow, seemed bound already
To another who I was soon told is close in friendship and not in courtship.
A light blizzard blew all around us, everyone celebrating the minx’s birthday that night,
But within me I felt something else shifting - and the trapped one was the cause.
A bit younger than I, so freer in thought and action, almost whimsical
In stark contrast to my mental struggles and inability to flow so smoothly these days.
And yet, after we trudge back into the heat and begin a game of spin the bottle,
Circumstance and the minx’s very nature see me poised to receive a kiss from
You.
The trapped one, now freed to flee if you so choose - you kiss me instead
And force me to revaluate all my recent revelations in the light of chance.
(now the poems become more recent, and in the case of Spin the Bottle more self-explanatory).
Along with dares carefully avoided until one steps into the trap,
Caught in the spite that she boldly declared she would face.
The blonde minx sits in her birthday dress, made a fool of already by all,
Even her own lover - she feels knifed but now has the youngest of us
Bound by the rules of the game and the scorn of her own dismissal.
The minx looks from she who is trapped to me and back again,
Smirking as the thought process comes to its awkward climax.
The trapped one will be freed from her brashness only if she
Crosses the room to where I sit - and kisses either crotch or lips!
A momentary pause as myself and the trapped one mull this over,
Carefully avoiding each other’s eyes for fear of making something
Uncomfortable into something overbearing - and the minx just laughs,
Claiming her curiosity lies only in the choice the trapped one makes.
Cornered with only two options, the trapped one makes a snap decision,
Downing her drink to build up some Dutch courage and marches towards
Me.
And I sit in stunned silence, unable to move - not that I wished to.
The trapped one had caught my eye earlier in the night out in the snow
When she missed me with a poorly aimed snowball, resulting in her flight.
My throw was truer than hers had been, but her laugh - inexplicable.
A feeling erupted inside of me, one that had been dormant for so long,
And I cut through snow like hot water, leaving steam trailing in my wake.
A joy for life was reborn that I had only grasped in my most recent dreams,
Ironically which were about the minx, so tenacious in her pursuit of controversy.
Yet the trapped one, still so free while flying in the snow, seemed bound already
To another who I was soon told is close in friendship and not in courtship.
A light blizzard blew all around us, everyone celebrating the minx’s birthday that night,
But within me I felt something else shifting - and the trapped one was the cause.
A bit younger than I, so freer in thought and action, almost whimsical
In stark contrast to my mental struggles and inability to flow so smoothly these days.
And yet, after we trudge back into the heat and begin a game of spin the bottle,
Circumstance and the minx’s very nature see me poised to receive a kiss from
You.
The trapped one, now freed to flee if you so choose - you kiss me instead
And force me to revaluate all my recent revelations in the light of chance.
(now the poems become more recent, and in the case of Spin the Bottle more self-explanatory).
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).
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).
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Today and Tomorrow Make Seven Between
Woke up to one of your signs,
Console the switched ‘round consoler,
Vanish into the days ahead,
Be the unhearing loner.
Voices still call out to you,
Lost in the dead earth and wood,
Wondering how to save you,
Forgetting they never could.
Fleeing the country to shores new,
Your rope remains just as taut,
Tears fall as they soon realise,
Hanging’s as firm as you thought.
Only one can run from life,
Leaving the stigma far behind,
Yearly they cry at your grave,
Your flight just turns in my mind.
Today and tomorrow make seven between.
With passing time come truths unforeseen.
Revelations, contemplations,
Hidden logic of your soul,
Vision tunnelled by mistakes,
She-devil dances, ripped whole.
Broken in peace or in pieces,
Private fight with fate’s choice,
A futile fray with tied chords,
Never did have your own voice.
(year seven's annual remembrance poem for my father - Signs by Bloc Party was used as a basis, meaning this poem could be sung to the music of Signs).
Console the switched ‘round consoler,
Vanish into the days ahead,
Be the unhearing loner.
Voices still call out to you,
Lost in the dead earth and wood,
Wondering how to save you,
Forgetting they never could.
Fleeing the country to shores new,
Your rope remains just as taut,
Tears fall as they soon realise,
Hanging’s as firm as you thought.
Only one can run from life,
Leaving the stigma far behind,
Yearly they cry at your grave,
Your flight just turns in my mind.
Today and tomorrow make seven between.
With passing time come truths unforeseen.
Revelations, contemplations,
Hidden logic of your soul,
Vision tunnelled by mistakes,
She-devil dances, ripped whole.
Broken in peace or in pieces,
Private fight with fate’s choice,
A futile fray with tied chords,
Never did have your own voice.
(year seven's annual remembrance poem for my father - Signs by Bloc Party was used as a basis, meaning this poem could be sung to the music of Signs).
Unwanted Monuments
Grave adorned with statues of a religion not followed,
Mary Mother of God watches over a man who never asked for her presence,
A cross is draped across the dark green marble like a necklace,
Prayers left in hope for a man who never wanted prayers or to pray,
And I just cannot stop this train of thought charging through,
Is this all we have waiting for us at the end of it all?
Sitting in silent solitude in a spot that offers little wisdom but plenty of time,
Perspective should be offered in the young and old buried all ‘round me,
The clouds stop moving and the wind stops blowing upon a sad sound,
A little girl crying for her daddy while her mother desperately tries to explain,
Visitors can only look on and feel sympathy at one so young losing her big man,
I can relate yet disregard her with one simple glance left and right.
A look around and every grave is the exact same,
God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph and the rest dominate these people’s deaths,
The fear of the unknown forces loved ones to act according to the Bible,
Even if those they loved held no passion for God or prayer or salvation,
Even if those we loved just wanted to find a way out,
Regardless of risking a run in with the devil in doing so.
Mind wanders back nearly seven years to the funeral we never wanted,
Readings and references to that dreamt up place called heaven,
All the mourners shaking in floods as they hope its existence is genuine,
Tommy recites his favourite passages which he always wanted his son to favour,
Even though Tommy knew full well, and still knows full well seven years on,
That his son never heard God’s apparent calls of reason.
Tommy buried himself in signs while his son was buried closer to hell,
Claiming his son is being watched by a God he never truly believed in,
Denial is a river down withered old cheeks too stubborn to change their ways,
The loss of a real thing will only reinforce belief in something that has no proof,
And Tommy will want those statues resting on his son’s grave to remain,
Even if his son never thought this was all his death would mean to his father.
(I visited my father's grave one day and, seven years after he passed away, suddenly realised the hypocrisy he was buried in and the hypocrisy he his now remembered by).
Mary Mother of God watches over a man who never asked for her presence,
A cross is draped across the dark green marble like a necklace,
Prayers left in hope for a man who never wanted prayers or to pray,
And I just cannot stop this train of thought charging through,
Is this all we have waiting for us at the end of it all?
Sitting in silent solitude in a spot that offers little wisdom but plenty of time,
Perspective should be offered in the young and old buried all ‘round me,
The clouds stop moving and the wind stops blowing upon a sad sound,
A little girl crying for her daddy while her mother desperately tries to explain,
Visitors can only look on and feel sympathy at one so young losing her big man,
I can relate yet disregard her with one simple glance left and right.
A look around and every grave is the exact same,
God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph and the rest dominate these people’s deaths,
The fear of the unknown forces loved ones to act according to the Bible,
Even if those they loved held no passion for God or prayer or salvation,
Even if those we loved just wanted to find a way out,
Regardless of risking a run in with the devil in doing so.
Mind wanders back nearly seven years to the funeral we never wanted,
Readings and references to that dreamt up place called heaven,
All the mourners shaking in floods as they hope its existence is genuine,
Tommy recites his favourite passages which he always wanted his son to favour,
Even though Tommy knew full well, and still knows full well seven years on,
That his son never heard God’s apparent calls of reason.
Tommy buried himself in signs while his son was buried closer to hell,
Claiming his son is being watched by a God he never truly believed in,
Denial is a river down withered old cheeks too stubborn to change their ways,
The loss of a real thing will only reinforce belief in something that has no proof,
And Tommy will want those statues resting on his son’s grave to remain,
Even if his son never thought this was all his death would mean to his father.
(I visited my father's grave one day and, seven years after he passed away, suddenly realised the hypocrisy he was buried in and the hypocrisy he his now remembered by).
Monday, January 4, 2010
Utopia
A perfect place where it never rains
And no wildlife dies without the water
Because the air is so fresh that it
Maintains the moisture in their bodies;
Located in the sky above, resting
On the clouds – floating, looking down
At the transparent sea
Where the sea’s beasts swim without intent;
The people in Utopia live in harmony,
In buildings of pure white, towers of
Hope forever achieved, of dreams
Perpetually lived through, day-by-day,
With the tallest skyscraper for miles around
Touching the stars;
Citizens never cease to smile, basking
In the glorious consummation surrounding them,
With illness a thing of imagination and aging
An incomprehensible and inane idea;
The population increases hundreds of thousands
A day, yet endless space materialises literally from
Thin air to accommodate the new born;
Anyone can be anything they want to be
Without any need to fear unemployment,
And it makes no difference if nobody takes on the
Mathematical, scientific or engineering jobs
Because there is no economy in Utopia – just a
Civilisation that has God on its side;
For God exists, and when you talk to Him
He whispers back, and when you pray to Him
A flash of white light blazes through the sky
And your prayers are answered;
Whatever you ask He grants because there is no
Greed in Utopia, no competition amongst the masses
Whose prayers are always righteous
And for those less fortunate than them, who live in the
Unspeakable places of which rumours abound;
And there is no evil in Utopia, no fear,
No shadows in the dark,
No rain, no thunder or lightning,
No devil to dance with,
No alcohol, no drugs,
No sex for pleasure before or after marriage,
No class divides, no religious divides,
No ideologies barring the one ideology,
No money, no poverty,
No pressure placed upon shrinking shoulders;
And there is no love in Utopia because heartbreak
Only leads to bitterness, which does not really exist
As everybody cares for one another equally,
With a family the only aim of reproduction and marriage
In Utopia;
And this place, this Utopia, is the most
Perfectly oppressive place ever wished for by mankind.
And no wildlife dies without the water
Because the air is so fresh that it
Maintains the moisture in their bodies;
Located in the sky above, resting
On the clouds – floating, looking down
At the transparent sea
Where the sea’s beasts swim without intent;
The people in Utopia live in harmony,
In buildings of pure white, towers of
Hope forever achieved, of dreams
Perpetually lived through, day-by-day,
With the tallest skyscraper for miles around
Touching the stars;
Citizens never cease to smile, basking
In the glorious consummation surrounding them,
With illness a thing of imagination and aging
An incomprehensible and inane idea;
The population increases hundreds of thousands
A day, yet endless space materialises literally from
Thin air to accommodate the new born;
Anyone can be anything they want to be
Without any need to fear unemployment,
And it makes no difference if nobody takes on the
Mathematical, scientific or engineering jobs
Because there is no economy in Utopia – just a
Civilisation that has God on its side;
For God exists, and when you talk to Him
He whispers back, and when you pray to Him
A flash of white light blazes through the sky
And your prayers are answered;
Whatever you ask He grants because there is no
Greed in Utopia, no competition amongst the masses
Whose prayers are always righteous
And for those less fortunate than them, who live in the
Unspeakable places of which rumours abound;
And there is no evil in Utopia, no fear,
No shadows in the dark,
No rain, no thunder or lightning,
No devil to dance with,
No alcohol, no drugs,
No sex for pleasure before or after marriage,
No class divides, no religious divides,
No ideologies barring the one ideology,
No money, no poverty,
No pressure placed upon shrinking shoulders;
And there is no love in Utopia because heartbreak
Only leads to bitterness, which does not really exist
As everybody cares for one another equally,
With a family the only aim of reproduction and marriage
In Utopia;
And this place, this Utopia, is the most
Perfectly oppressive place ever wished for by mankind.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Thump thump thump thump thump
Thump thump thump thump thump,
Racing through reality drunk on dimension,
A new divide deducting the falsities in truth,
Crossing in it the hope of finding an answer
To the heavy beating, constant, unfailing,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
Escaping into the deceptions painted all over,
The propaganda, the lies we all know are lies
But never confront because of the status quo,
And still they raise the tempo in our chests,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
Music toying with our emotions towards it,
The set scene, the duck and dive, the kiss,
The tragedy of death and the glory of victory,
The glimmer of chance before it is taken away,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
And then we lose everything amidst the drumming,
The rolling of the credits, the final note of the song,
Across what was supposed to be the valley of revelation
Only to find there is no end to any of it, just the wait,
Thump thump thump thump thump…
Racing through reality drunk on dimension,
A new divide deducting the falsities in truth,
Crossing in it the hope of finding an answer
To the heavy beating, constant, unfailing,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
Escaping into the deceptions painted all over,
The propaganda, the lies we all know are lies
But never confront because of the status quo,
And still they raise the tempo in our chests,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
Music toying with our emotions towards it,
The set scene, the duck and dive, the kiss,
The tragedy of death and the glory of victory,
The glimmer of chance before it is taken away,
Thump thump thump thump thump,
And then we lose everything amidst the drumming,
The rolling of the credits, the final note of the song,
Across what was supposed to be the valley of revelation
Only to find there is no end to any of it, just the wait,
Thump thump thump thump thump…
Monday, December 28, 2009
Taken Path
Whatever is handy is the taken path,
Overcomplicating the load is unnecessary,
Pretension sought and found, lived through and hidden,
Looking glass fogged, blanket covering
Up all those who are happy, blocked from
Begrudging glances;
Seeking a time when wishes breathe in life,
Bouncing from dreams like a rainbow arising from
The crest of a wave, banishing the rain
To a dark cloud in the Atlantic, while all the colours
Flourish in the sky and in your mirror-like eyes;
Hope haplessly given and taken away in two words,
The same two words, positively negative
In their structure, playing prospects with a
Turn of phrase, but not so much lies as a
Change of mind;
Glasses are worn to prevent tears, blue shining
In the drops held back at the sight of the opposing green,
And all I wanted was to take your hand, to flee
This suffocating standard imposed in the institution
Before its grasp sucked all the youthful enthusiasm
We had spare from us;
But you are caught in it now, heading back West
To establish your name as the others all fall away
And while I sit alone, writing about rainbows and blue waves
That just make up another poem about something lost
That I never had.
Overcomplicating the load is unnecessary,
Pretension sought and found, lived through and hidden,
Looking glass fogged, blanket covering
Up all those who are happy, blocked from
Begrudging glances;
Seeking a time when wishes breathe in life,
Bouncing from dreams like a rainbow arising from
The crest of a wave, banishing the rain
To a dark cloud in the Atlantic, while all the colours
Flourish in the sky and in your mirror-like eyes;
Hope haplessly given and taken away in two words,
The same two words, positively negative
In their structure, playing prospects with a
Turn of phrase, but not so much lies as a
Change of mind;
Glasses are worn to prevent tears, blue shining
In the drops held back at the sight of the opposing green,
And all I wanted was to take your hand, to flee
This suffocating standard imposed in the institution
Before its grasp sucked all the youthful enthusiasm
We had spare from us;
But you are caught in it now, heading back West
To establish your name as the others all fall away
And while I sit alone, writing about rainbows and blue waves
That just make up another poem about something lost
That I never had.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Stands
Stands manned by people close at hand,
Smiles wide inviting them to turn the tide,
Shouting, laughing, objectives graphing,
Alone I watch, helpless at hand.
Pins see the sky bringing a gasp and a sigh,
Bodies crush as people pointlessly push,
Staring, scathing, fearing their world is changing,
Alone I watch, and I can only sigh.
They snatched the confused while they mused,
Thieves of time gifting only rhymes,
Passionate in trapping their early mapping,
Alone I watch, not snatched while I mused.
And I have never been so close to friends
And still felt so lost,
And I have never been more alone in a crowd
Then when useless by the stands.
Smiles wide inviting them to turn the tide,
Shouting, laughing, objectives graphing,
Alone I watch, helpless at hand.
Pins see the sky bringing a gasp and a sigh,
Bodies crush as people pointlessly push,
Staring, scathing, fearing their world is changing,
Alone I watch, and I can only sigh.
They snatched the confused while they mused,
Thieves of time gifting only rhymes,
Passionate in trapping their early mapping,
Alone I watch, not snatched while I mused.
And I have never been so close to friends
And still felt so lost,
And I have never been more alone in a crowd
Then when useless by the stands.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Crocodile
Wrapping paper ripped apart in excited greed
And envious glances are cast my way.
I got the biggest present of the lot.
I tear to shreds the green paper with red
Presents decorated all over and am faced with
An unusual thing – a crocodile.
Initially, I laugh, joining in with the joke that
This crocodile is the perfect present for me
With its green skin and still greener hoops.
Then, it starts happening all around me,
The people do what they have failed to do
For the last two and a half years and actually
Revel in one another’s company outside of a
Classroom – and all I can do is sit here,
Crocodile hanging loosely from my hand,
Wondering when it was I last left my house
Without fearing ridicule from ridiculous people.
Snide comments passed by the standard bearers in the presence
Of the other better people, the other important people,
The ones who saved the publication from the mundane
And made guardians and independents take notice.
As they pretend to live in reality, the coldness of my lids
Reverberates down my body every millisecond,
Slowly, like a groping glove seeking the hidden problems,
Only without the warm intention to cure those problems,
And tears come so close before becoming cold themselves,
Retreating so far away the thought makes me want to cry
All over again, all over the people.
So I turn to the crocodile with hopes of a reprieve
From a present meant to make me smile, surely?
But the crocodile has no words of wisdom, no
Philosophy I can borrow; it just sits there,
Unemotional, quiet, with dead pan eyes and
A stitched up mouth preventing attack on open wounds.
Yet there is something else about the crocodile’s indifference,
A reclusive charm hangs about it, with a knowing air,
And I realise then what I missed in its absent glint;
This crocodile is laughing at me, mocking the blood
Coursing through my veins, and the life that blood brings
To my heart – only to allow it all slip away in whirlpools
Of doubt and despair, with death not even an option
Because I am not allowed to die the way he did.
In its entire idleness, its unnerving uselessness and
Its dead in every single way nature, this crocodile
Has finally enabled me to understand a grim truth;
I am as much use to those I call my friends
As this crocodile is – stuffed, lifeless and of
Value to nobody in the harsh reality of things.
Yet I am kept around, purely for entertainment,
Cheap, over apologetic, and utterly humorous to all
But I.
And as my mind walks away from yet another
Unfinished jigsaw puzzle missing its major pieces,
I attempt to console myself by withdrawing with
The crocodile into isolation;
The din of the party they had without me, though,
Follows behind like an annoying child,
Tugging at my ear lobes, smashing my drums,
Getting louder and louder the further away I go,
Repeatedly hitting the great time had by all off my face
Until blood begins to flow from my nose like the
Slowest and most elegant of waterfalls.
And I shout, and I shout, and I shout, and I shout,
But I am drowned out by the invisible long over party,
And I fall silent out of hoarseness, as quiet as this
Crocodile now occupying the foot of my bed,
As opinionless, voiceless and completely choiceless
As this stuffed loon.
(I got a crocodile for Kris Kringle and look what it made me write).
And envious glances are cast my way.
I got the biggest present of the lot.
I tear to shreds the green paper with red
Presents decorated all over and am faced with
An unusual thing – a crocodile.
Initially, I laugh, joining in with the joke that
This crocodile is the perfect present for me
With its green skin and still greener hoops.
Then, it starts happening all around me,
The people do what they have failed to do
For the last two and a half years and actually
Revel in one another’s company outside of a
Classroom – and all I can do is sit here,
Crocodile hanging loosely from my hand,
Wondering when it was I last left my house
Without fearing ridicule from ridiculous people.
Snide comments passed by the standard bearers in the presence
Of the other better people, the other important people,
The ones who saved the publication from the mundane
And made guardians and independents take notice.
As they pretend to live in reality, the coldness of my lids
Reverberates down my body every millisecond,
Slowly, like a groping glove seeking the hidden problems,
Only without the warm intention to cure those problems,
And tears come so close before becoming cold themselves,
Retreating so far away the thought makes me want to cry
All over again, all over the people.
So I turn to the crocodile with hopes of a reprieve
From a present meant to make me smile, surely?
But the crocodile has no words of wisdom, no
Philosophy I can borrow; it just sits there,
Unemotional, quiet, with dead pan eyes and
A stitched up mouth preventing attack on open wounds.
Yet there is something else about the crocodile’s indifference,
A reclusive charm hangs about it, with a knowing air,
And I realise then what I missed in its absent glint;
This crocodile is laughing at me, mocking the blood
Coursing through my veins, and the life that blood brings
To my heart – only to allow it all slip away in whirlpools
Of doubt and despair, with death not even an option
Because I am not allowed to die the way he did.
In its entire idleness, its unnerving uselessness and
Its dead in every single way nature, this crocodile
Has finally enabled me to understand a grim truth;
I am as much use to those I call my friends
As this crocodile is – stuffed, lifeless and of
Value to nobody in the harsh reality of things.
Yet I am kept around, purely for entertainment,
Cheap, over apologetic, and utterly humorous to all
But I.
And as my mind walks away from yet another
Unfinished jigsaw puzzle missing its major pieces,
I attempt to console myself by withdrawing with
The crocodile into isolation;
The din of the party they had without me, though,
Follows behind like an annoying child,
Tugging at my ear lobes, smashing my drums,
Getting louder and louder the further away I go,
Repeatedly hitting the great time had by all off my face
Until blood begins to flow from my nose like the
Slowest and most elegant of waterfalls.
And I shout, and I shout, and I shout, and I shout,
But I am drowned out by the invisible long over party,
And I fall silent out of hoarseness, as quiet as this
Crocodile now occupying the foot of my bed,
As opinionless, voiceless and completely choiceless
As this stuffed loon.
(I got a crocodile for Kris Kringle and look what it made me write).
Monday, December 7, 2009
Spark
There is a light in Donaghmede that can bring more shadows than sight,
A spark that can start more fires than lighters,
She makes the book of love into a drama without the bland,
Forever seeking attention from two close at hand,
And age goes by so slowly for them all,
Each one waiting for the other to call.
He claims to have walked in with eyes wide open,
A fog brought by her blinded his way,
The orange glow carries him home five nights straight,
Dimming in hope as each night passes,
With the mildness of the beginning dying so fast,
Wind and rain soon doubling confused pain.
And that phantom no longer himself leaves her house,
Heart uplifted at the renewed vigour her words brought,
He is completely unaware of the tangle in which he is caught,
Strung along like a puppet by a friend played like a piano,
String and keyboard at the end of her shared bed,
A box of matches at her bedside.
She strikes a flame as all sparks do,
Searing the next scene into the grass of her back garden,
The smoke rises in the shape of the soap opera’s end.
A spark that can start more fires than lighters,
She makes the book of love into a drama without the bland,
Forever seeking attention from two close at hand,
And age goes by so slowly for them all,
Each one waiting for the other to call.
He claims to have walked in with eyes wide open,
A fog brought by her blinded his way,
The orange glow carries him home five nights straight,
Dimming in hope as each night passes,
With the mildness of the beginning dying so fast,
Wind and rain soon doubling confused pain.
And that phantom no longer himself leaves her house,
Heart uplifted at the renewed vigour her words brought,
He is completely unaware of the tangle in which he is caught,
Strung along like a puppet by a friend played like a piano,
String and keyboard at the end of her shared bed,
A box of matches at her bedside.
She strikes a flame as all sparks do,
Searing the next scene into the grass of her back garden,
The smoke rises in the shape of the soap opera’s end.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Sort of
A certainty no longer guaranteed turns my head this way and that,
Options not even viable become the main focus of my confusion,
Somehow I have succeeded in pushing away true feelings,
In their stead comes silence and shut doors with taken keys;
Things are never so simple as they seem in the book of love,
With phrases like “sort of” often used as a ‘get out of jail free’ card,
And it is sad how one request can be met with such disdain,
Asked three times in total, the replies cease to come;
There is nothing to bury myself in now,
The realisation of three years wasted takes away all motivation,
All I can do is sit on my hands and wait for two semesters’ end,
Then I can walk away from the pointless things and begin again;
The touch of others close by offers a dangerous temptation,
Desires not reciprocated drag my eyes away from the game,
Which is so much worse to a broken mind and a broken heart,
Well, to a mind and heart that never had an act together in the first place;
And in the end all I really want is a big hug from a close friend,
As at least in her hug I can close my eyes and escape the real world.
Options not even viable become the main focus of my confusion,
Somehow I have succeeded in pushing away true feelings,
In their stead comes silence and shut doors with taken keys;
Things are never so simple as they seem in the book of love,
With phrases like “sort of” often used as a ‘get out of jail free’ card,
And it is sad how one request can be met with such disdain,
Asked three times in total, the replies cease to come;
There is nothing to bury myself in now,
The realisation of three years wasted takes away all motivation,
All I can do is sit on my hands and wait for two semesters’ end,
Then I can walk away from the pointless things and begin again;
The touch of others close by offers a dangerous temptation,
Desires not reciprocated drag my eyes away from the game,
Which is so much worse to a broken mind and a broken heart,
Well, to a mind and heart that never had an act together in the first place;
And in the end all I really want is a big hug from a close friend,
As at least in her hug I can close my eyes and escape the real world.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Snowed in Salt
All is not sacred, the snow preserves nothing,
Frost may still lakes but it never stops life
Or the falling pieces caught in the brief glimpses of
Moonlight that show themselves through cloud breaks.
People slip on the ice but get up every time, dusting down
To press on with the day or night ahead - this, though,
Is not true of now, the break in play that feels like
A break in time; even though it has just sped up.
Love’s fragility can never be underestimated
Yet when its final chapter is written in two people’s lives
The shock reverberates through the streets, bringing
Feelings of endless emptiness in stomachs’ pits and
The odd tear of sympathy that lands in the snow,
Untroubled, as it becomes part of that blanket of white.
Footsteps over footsteps, forever trampling and unceasing
Despite the sight of a blown out light in the room next door,
Where warmth once emanated, heating passers by,
Lost thoughts of freezing wonder rescued by it.
Now, it is smoke and ash for reasons unknown; burned-out
Flames make eyes drift away from the facing facts,
Allowing the most important thing to be pushed out altogether.
Snowed in before it had ever fallen, making the love impossible to retrieve,
And no amount of salt could clear the sought path or the
Realisation that believing it would last forever was the biggest mistake.
Frost may still lakes but it never stops life
Or the falling pieces caught in the brief glimpses of
Moonlight that show themselves through cloud breaks.
People slip on the ice but get up every time, dusting down
To press on with the day or night ahead - this, though,
Is not true of now, the break in play that feels like
A break in time; even though it has just sped up.
Love’s fragility can never be underestimated
Yet when its final chapter is written in two people’s lives
The shock reverberates through the streets, bringing
Feelings of endless emptiness in stomachs’ pits and
The odd tear of sympathy that lands in the snow,
Untroubled, as it becomes part of that blanket of white.
Footsteps over footsteps, forever trampling and unceasing
Despite the sight of a blown out light in the room next door,
Where warmth once emanated, heating passers by,
Lost thoughts of freezing wonder rescued by it.
Now, it is smoke and ash for reasons unknown; burned-out
Flames make eyes drift away from the facing facts,
Allowing the most important thing to be pushed out altogether.
Snowed in before it had ever fallen, making the love impossible to retrieve,
And no amount of salt could clear the sought path or the
Realisation that believing it would last forever was the biggest mistake.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Queen
The Queen in sparkling blue presides over her audience,
All dancing, individuals lost within individuals,
And the Queen is just a tarted up, personality stripped version of Grace,
Slightly older with a beauty extending to movement only,
While a Voice self proclaimed as God speaks to the masses,
Thinking His control of the beats gives Him control of the people;
The Voice makes meaningless statements and sentiments
When all the revellers want to do is throw themselves at each other,
Showing the signs to those they find attractive,
Dropping the eyes when contact is made with the Gorilla;
Every turn is met with the sight of grinding, drinking and border-line riding,
False pretence dominates as the ugly believe they can snare a minx,
The good looking smile wryly while struggling to stand,
They will not be undressing for the Gorilla tonight
No matter how many times they are chased around the dance floor;
And as the politics of drunken deliberation and spiralling hormones is played out,
The Queen rules with mediocre movements that entrance
All the races and animals of this enclosed world equally,
While the withered old Mother looks up at her daughter’s throne
And remembers when her two-step shuffle was wisdom enough to be Queen.
All dancing, individuals lost within individuals,
And the Queen is just a tarted up, personality stripped version of Grace,
Slightly older with a beauty extending to movement only,
While a Voice self proclaimed as God speaks to the masses,
Thinking His control of the beats gives Him control of the people;
The Voice makes meaningless statements and sentiments
When all the revellers want to do is throw themselves at each other,
Showing the signs to those they find attractive,
Dropping the eyes when contact is made with the Gorilla;
Every turn is met with the sight of grinding, drinking and border-line riding,
False pretence dominates as the ugly believe they can snare a minx,
The good looking smile wryly while struggling to stand,
They will not be undressing for the Gorilla tonight
No matter how many times they are chased around the dance floor;
And as the politics of drunken deliberation and spiralling hormones is played out,
The Queen rules with mediocre movements that entrance
All the races and animals of this enclosed world equally,
While the withered old Mother looks up at her daughter’s throne
And remembers when her two-step shuffle was wisdom enough to be Queen.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Spent Dream
You invite me in, purple dress playing off your blonde hair
And blue eyes while you smile a smouldering smile,
Full of passion, wanting just one thing from this meeting.
Forbidden and desirable, we remain chaste for all of
Ten seconds - innocence melts away before our fire.
The door to your bedroom nearly came off its hinges
We burst through it in such impatient haste, as if this
Perfectly imperfect moment was about to slip through
Our fingertips back to the reality of the situation.
I thought to myself that this was so wrong yet it felt
So right if not long overdue as I tore through your clothes
And kissed your breasts while knowing we would never again
Get another chance - every kiss was filled with all the life
I have lacked in recent weeks, proving to me that you are
The missing link I can never have; secretly, I have always
Known this to be true, but ignorance of the reality we live in
Was always better than accepting it and slinking away in isolation.
We stop as our eyes meet, me looking down and you looking up,
Attempting to put everything into perspective as our illogical sweat cools
On our naked bodies - we know the consequence of our urges,
And we reaffirm in our minds that this is all either of us want,
A forbidden fruit so tantalisingly close that to stop now would be
The biggest crime either of us could commit - and we make love
All night long, releasing the pent up frustration of the truth
Before falling asleep in each other’s arms, sorely spent,
But hopelessly happy and just wanting to wake up to the sight
Of the other’s eyes the next morning.
But when I woke up, the night still hung like a cloak around the room
Which was not yours but mine - and I lie alone, exactly how
I had fallen asleep whilst watching the days of Summer,
And all the life you had given me begins to slowly fade away
As my dream quickly becomes a memory that never happened.
(I had a random dream and this was it, exactly as it happened in my sleep).
And blue eyes while you smile a smouldering smile,
Full of passion, wanting just one thing from this meeting.
Forbidden and desirable, we remain chaste for all of
Ten seconds - innocence melts away before our fire.
The door to your bedroom nearly came off its hinges
We burst through it in such impatient haste, as if this
Perfectly imperfect moment was about to slip through
Our fingertips back to the reality of the situation.
I thought to myself that this was so wrong yet it felt
So right if not long overdue as I tore through your clothes
And kissed your breasts while knowing we would never again
Get another chance - every kiss was filled with all the life
I have lacked in recent weeks, proving to me that you are
The missing link I can never have; secretly, I have always
Known this to be true, but ignorance of the reality we live in
Was always better than accepting it and slinking away in isolation.
We stop as our eyes meet, me looking down and you looking up,
Attempting to put everything into perspective as our illogical sweat cools
On our naked bodies - we know the consequence of our urges,
And we reaffirm in our minds that this is all either of us want,
A forbidden fruit so tantalisingly close that to stop now would be
The biggest crime either of us could commit - and we make love
All night long, releasing the pent up frustration of the truth
Before falling asleep in each other’s arms, sorely spent,
But hopelessly happy and just wanting to wake up to the sight
Of the other’s eyes the next morning.
But when I woke up, the night still hung like a cloak around the room
Which was not yours but mine - and I lie alone, exactly how
I had fallen asleep whilst watching the days of Summer,
And all the life you had given me begins to slowly fade away
As my dream quickly becomes a memory that never happened.
(I had a random dream and this was it, exactly as it happened in my sleep).
Rising Smoke
They dance, forgetting any potential problem they have,
Me at their side, unknown to them but known to me,
And I use the safety of introductions in ignorance as a scapegoat
To get lost in the rising smoke.
They drink, celebrating the birthday of an age old friend,
Me at their side, celebrating in isolated, silent sobriety,
And as they circle the birthday boy in his naked birthday suit
I get lost in the rising smoke.
They shout, demented in their deliberate drunken state,
Me at their side, unaware of being sucked into their oblivion,
And I drown myself in their yelping yells and my standard sub-vocals
To get lost in the rising smoke.
They link, jumping around the birthday boy singing “Happy Birthday!”,
Me at their side, humming the tune in distracted disinterest,
And as they cheer and clap amidst the shenanigans of ropey randomers
I get lost in the rising smoke.
Wondering when again I would get to wield my weapon.
A perfect pen forced painfully into prostration.
(another night out poem where I was more concerned with typing random lines into my phone than having a good night).
Me at their side, unknown to them but known to me,
And I use the safety of introductions in ignorance as a scapegoat
To get lost in the rising smoke.
They drink, celebrating the birthday of an age old friend,
Me at their side, celebrating in isolated, silent sobriety,
And as they circle the birthday boy in his naked birthday suit
I get lost in the rising smoke.
They shout, demented in their deliberate drunken state,
Me at their side, unaware of being sucked into their oblivion,
And I drown myself in their yelping yells and my standard sub-vocals
To get lost in the rising smoke.
They link, jumping around the birthday boy singing “Happy Birthday!”,
Me at their side, humming the tune in distracted disinterest,
And as they cheer and clap amidst the shenanigans of ropey randomers
I get lost in the rising smoke.
Wondering when again I would get to wield my weapon.
A perfect pen forced painfully into prostration.
(another night out poem where I was more concerned with typing random lines into my phone than having a good night).
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Light Through the Leaves
Rhythmic drunkness is a release sought by many,
The rhythm alone is all I have.
Patience is a virtue that has faded into history,
Mine needs to be never-ending.
Darkness becomes darkest as temperatures drop,
And it seems as if the opportunity has been lost.
But our generation never do things by halves,
Your vodka and coke loosened your tongue.
We come together amidst random faces,
Our eyes meeting and keeping with every step closer.
The music escalates along with our laughter,
And we forget where we are and why we are there…
Caring only for the coincidence of our chance meeting.
Our dancing feet tear holes in the floor,
To the dismay of our friend the home-owner.
We got swept away by the rush of the moment,
So we leave to find privacy outside the packed room.
Sub-zero temperatures cannot match our heat,
Hidden by the nearby bushes.
Then, a terrible thought rises to the top of my mind;
Everything happening around me is separate to me, myself.
Devoid of feeling, emotion, physical movement,
Even though I should be in control, I should be happy.
The last thing I see are a set of car lights through leaves;
You cannot feel things in dreams…
Those emotions hit you in bed as soon as you awake.
The rhythm alone is all I have.
Patience is a virtue that has faded into history,
Mine needs to be never-ending.
Darkness becomes darkest as temperatures drop,
And it seems as if the opportunity has been lost.
But our generation never do things by halves,
Your vodka and coke loosened your tongue.
We come together amidst random faces,
Our eyes meeting and keeping with every step closer.
The music escalates along with our laughter,
And we forget where we are and why we are there…
Caring only for the coincidence of our chance meeting.
Our dancing feet tear holes in the floor,
To the dismay of our friend the home-owner.
We got swept away by the rush of the moment,
So we leave to find privacy outside the packed room.
Sub-zero temperatures cannot match our heat,
Hidden by the nearby bushes.
Then, a terrible thought rises to the top of my mind;
Everything happening around me is separate to me, myself.
Devoid of feeling, emotion, physical movement,
Even though I should be in control, I should be happy.
The last thing I see are a set of car lights through leaves;
You cannot feel things in dreams…
Those emotions hit you in bed as soon as you awake.
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