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.

The Cast-Offs

Cast-off souls call out in vain
To former flames with forgotten names,
Fragile as glass they wait for life
To deliver a chance to end the strife.

Beaten, not broken they still stand,
Beauty resonating throughout the sand,
Arm-in-arm they gaze out to sea,
Healing hope to set them free.

The wind blows and clears the air
Of the problems that are so unfair,
Predications of the past so trite
Are tossed aside in the pending night.

Cataclysmic thoughts sink
When one witnesses the final wink,
Because time spars with each of us,
Just to reinforce that wavering trust.

These are the souls time remembers
As they are the ones fools dismember,
The souls that breath all alone,
Without the monotony of life’s drone.

Burst Banks

One mean promise that bursts its banks, causing
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.

Fuelled Fire

I fuel a fire that never needed
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.

I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.

Rankle

Agitation of my wringing hands haunts
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.

Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.

Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.

Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.

Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.

Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.

The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.

Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.

Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.

Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.