#1 Dream
I dreamt I was five years old,
my father discovers I will grow up
to be a shambles of a man
he murders me
quickly, viciously, silently, softly
and I never grow up to make my mother cry.
I respect him
for sparing her this
For Little Sunflower
At waking moment, when night's fates and fears align
I see you beside me, like a dream within a dream,
and look upon you with the wonder that only child's first sight could match
with affection and love never wavering
your beauty constant through the blinking of mine eye
Little sunflower, my love for you is such
that when the sun no longer burns in the sky
and times fickle clock is winding down
the only thing that will remain at the end of all things
is the unending love I have for you.
At waking moment, when night's fates and fears align
I see you beside me, like a dream within a dream,
and look upon you with the wonder that only child's first sight could match
with affection and love never wavering
your beauty constant through the blinking of mine eye
Little sunflower, my love for you is such
that when the sun no longer burns in the sky
and times fickle clock is winding down
the only thing that will remain at the end of all things
is the unending love I have for you.
Rain
When it rains
cities fall from the sky
and break weak branches
from the old trees
that are dying before our very eyes
as romantic poets glance towards the stars
and seek sanctuary
from promiscuous nights of debauchery
and the wine soaked hours of insomnia
crying tears for the hundred lives they will never lead
When it rains
cities fall from the sky
and break weak branches
from the old trees
that are dying before our very eyes
as romantic poets glance towards the stars
and seek sanctuary
from promiscuous nights of debauchery
and the wine soaked hours of insomnia
crying tears for the hundred lives they will never lead
Clocks
Each clock in the house tells a different time
and there are many clocks
spread about the place.
Some are an hour ahead
Some are an hour behind
the clock that tells the truth.
One of the clocks is trapped
two hours in the past
and see's where I was before.
Another has skipped ahead into the night
but I can still see light outside
and take comfort in this.
Each clock in the house tells a different time
and there are many clocks
spread about the place.
Some are an hour ahead
Some are an hour behind
the clock that tells the truth.
One of the clocks is trapped
two hours in the past
and see's where I was before.
Another has skipped ahead into the night
but I can still see light outside
and take comfort in this.
Behind the Bar
Your name is Katy
which gives you a certain air of accesibility
even though you are, by far,
the most beautiful woman I have ever seen
I like the way you pour drinks
and the delicare manner in which
you fold cutlery in a napkin
and when you disperse candles
to fire up the darkness of the pubs nooks and crannys.
I have developed my own suspicions about you,
that you may have the ability to galvanise an army,
my own personal Helen of Troy
if only I could talk to you
but I always know when you're around
because the lights shine brighter on John Bright street
and sometimes you eve smile at me
Your name is Katy
which gives you a certain air of accesibility
even though you are, by far,
the most beautiful woman I have ever seen
I like the way you pour drinks
and the delicare manner in which
you fold cutlery in a napkin
and when you disperse candles
to fire up the darkness of the pubs nooks and crannys.
I have developed my own suspicions about you,
that you may have the ability to galvanise an army,
my own personal Helen of Troy
if only I could talk to you
but I always know when you're around
because the lights shine brighter on John Bright street
and sometimes you eve smile at me
Wave
Stood outside a greasy cafe
the smell of sickly food fills my nostrils
skint, unable to eat
I smoke another rolled up cigarette
gazing into the gaps between moving cars.
A silver BMW fills my vision
and a young black girl smiles at me from the back seat
her innocence amazes me
as she waves a pale palm in my direction
not knowing the hurt I have caused
or the dark alleyways I have stumbled down
so I smile back at her and wave
with my dirty nicotine fingers
until the beamer fills my world with dust
and she is gone
Stood outside a greasy cafe
the smell of sickly food fills my nostrils
skint, unable to eat
I smoke another rolled up cigarette
gazing into the gaps between moving cars.
A silver BMW fills my vision
and a young black girl smiles at me from the back seat
her innocence amazes me
as she waves a pale palm in my direction
not knowing the hurt I have caused
or the dark alleyways I have stumbled down
so I smile back at her and wave
with my dirty nicotine fingers
until the beamer fills my world with dust
and she is gone
The Changeling
I want to dance where the children played,
barefoot with innocence
I hear I was a happy child
before love, loss, everything since
I remember that boy, he wore a smile
and his fingers were covered in pastel and chalk
Now I am something else entirely
I am the changeling that can no longer change
In sleep and dream I see the potential to be better
It is these dreams that haunt me
and stretch out the waking hours of my infinite sadness
to the longest hangover I have ever known.
I want to dance where the children played,
barefoot with innocence
I hear I was a happy child
before love, loss, everything since
I remember that boy, he wore a smile
and his fingers were covered in pastel and chalk
Now I am something else entirely
I am the changeling that can no longer change
In sleep and dream I see the potential to be better
It is these dreams that haunt me
and stretch out the waking hours of my infinite sadness
to the longest hangover I have ever known.
Walking to the shop for Rizla
Walking streets in noir tinged skies,
the flaps of my dearstalker blowing in the wind
Streets so cold and quiet
Silent
When silence is the voice of a discontent soul
manifesting itself in profanity and petual violence,
beermats and brimming ashtrays,
the lonely places where no words are forthcoming.
I think I hear music in the sound of running water
but I am mistaken, there is just silence
and the sound of my own footsteps carrying me home
Walking streets in noir tinged skies,
the flaps of my dearstalker blowing in the wind
Streets so cold and quiet
Silent
When silence is the voice of a discontent soul
manifesting itself in profanity and petual violence,
beermats and brimming ashtrays,
the lonely places where no words are forthcoming.
I think I hear music in the sound of running water
but I am mistaken, there is just silence
and the sound of my own footsteps carrying me home
Cannibal Love
We bask in splendid indifference
there is nothing that shocks us now
Our insides laid bare across the kitchen table
Such a wonderful feast
I ate you up
You put me in your mouth
Would you fuck me if I was dead?
Always, always
In the naivety of my denial
the kings and queens of old look down on us
mocking me praising thee
but in our nudity we are strangely refreshed
two throbbing bodies under a fabricated moonlight
We bask in splendid indifference
there is nothing that shocks us now
Our insides laid bare across the kitchen table
Such a wonderful feast
I ate you up
You put me in your mouth
Would you fuck me if I was dead?
Always, always
In the naivety of my denial
the kings and queens of old look down on us
mocking me praising thee
but in our nudity we are strangely refreshed
two throbbing bodies under a fabricated moonlight
Liffey
...we could live in the old tenement housing just outside of fair Dublin city
and stagger home each night, cock eyed,
from the pub with all the money on the walls.
It was all the whiskey we could drink
after you convinced the patron we were somebodies
I walk with my arm around you and you cling onto me for dear life
as we drop our copper wishes from the bridge
and watch them sink into the Liffey
You slur and ask me if it will always be this way
Perhaps if we are lucky and the odds are in our favour
Drunk in love, on love
as we stumble home across the Liffey
...we could live in the old tenement housing just outside of fair Dublin city
and stagger home each night, cock eyed,
from the pub with all the money on the walls.
It was all the whiskey we could drink
after you convinced the patron we were somebodies
I walk with my arm around you and you cling onto me for dear life
as we drop our copper wishes from the bridge
and watch them sink into the Liffey
You slur and ask me if it will always be this way
Perhaps if we are lucky and the odds are in our favour
Drunk in love, on love
as we stumble home across the Liffey
Women
She pulls on the wig to deceive us all
Tonight she will play the character she longs to be
Flirtatious, vivacious, the carnival queen
She allows it to empower her
These newfound characteristics
Her mind is not her own.
As she takes to the dance floor
The flare of the disco ball stitches sequins to her pale unpainted cheeks
Her dress flares and bellows in the gust of our admiration
All eyes are upon her
Twisting and swirling to a tune only she knows the steps to.
The words to the song are familiar to us all
But hold special meaning in her heart
As she recalls the memory of love
That first twisted and then sliced her insides to smithereens.
Her moves take on an unknown force and she begins to stomp her feet
Calling forth memories of a tribal funeral march with each emphatic step.
The music builds to a dramatic crescendo
And she falls helpless to the floor.
The faces turn away from her
It is as if she no longer matters
The back of their heads smite her with every newborn conversation.
All except mine.
I approach her and whisper her name
The name that only I have knowledge of.
Her tear stained cheeks un-tuck themselves
From the safety of her foetal position.
She takes me by the hand
And we break free into the night.
In the nakedness of our embrace
Under the shadow of bittersweet confession
We carve our initials with hammer and sickle
Into the very depths of one another’s hearts
But she has the indecency to mock the words I speak to her
All the sonnets of my affection.
She holds a pillow over my face
And with sweet lullaby circling in my ears
She wills me now to sleep.
As she basks in the finality of my confusion
Her, the ambassador of empty promises
I give my final thoughts to her.
In the morning I find her now removed
And find I am embarrassed by my body.
I investigate and find my apartment strangely empty.
It appears she has taken me for all I am worth.
The canvas I had been slaving over day and night-
The self portrait of my soul
Has been replaced by a lewd doodle
a crude image, a memory of the night before.
I curl into a ball
And clutch her sketch to my chest
Drawn on lined paper, a page removed from my notebook
Which now belongs to her.
Allowing my eyes to fall closed
I hold my breath
And try to find a place to forget the reason why
I can no longer sleep at night.
She pulls on the wig to deceive us all
Tonight she will play the character she longs to be
Flirtatious, vivacious, the carnival queen
She allows it to empower her
These newfound characteristics
Her mind is not her own.
As she takes to the dance floor
The flare of the disco ball stitches sequins to her pale unpainted cheeks
Her dress flares and bellows in the gust of our admiration
All eyes are upon her
Twisting and swirling to a tune only she knows the steps to.
The words to the song are familiar to us all
But hold special meaning in her heart
As she recalls the memory of love
That first twisted and then sliced her insides to smithereens.
Her moves take on an unknown force and she begins to stomp her feet
Calling forth memories of a tribal funeral march with each emphatic step.
The music builds to a dramatic crescendo
And she falls helpless to the floor.
The faces turn away from her
It is as if she no longer matters
The back of their heads smite her with every newborn conversation.
All except mine.
I approach her and whisper her name
The name that only I have knowledge of.
Her tear stained cheeks un-tuck themselves
From the safety of her foetal position.
She takes me by the hand
And we break free into the night.
In the nakedness of our embrace
Under the shadow of bittersweet confession
We carve our initials with hammer and sickle
Into the very depths of one another’s hearts
But she has the indecency to mock the words I speak to her
All the sonnets of my affection.
She holds a pillow over my face
And with sweet lullaby circling in my ears
She wills me now to sleep.
As she basks in the finality of my confusion
Her, the ambassador of empty promises
I give my final thoughts to her.
In the morning I find her now removed
And find I am embarrassed by my body.
I investigate and find my apartment strangely empty.
It appears she has taken me for all I am worth.
The canvas I had been slaving over day and night-
The self portrait of my soul
Has been replaced by a lewd doodle
a crude image, a memory of the night before.
I curl into a ball
And clutch her sketch to my chest
Drawn on lined paper, a page removed from my notebook
Which now belongs to her.
Allowing my eyes to fall closed
I hold my breath
And try to find a place to forget the reason why
I can no longer sleep at night.
J. Found in a pad, long since forgotten.
Here in the fourth season of our discontent
where daylight has diminished beyond all recognition,
the promise of rain reminds me of the tears still left to cry
We were meant to grow old you and I,
Kings and Queens of our own destiny
Instead,
we stand here on the edge of our existence,
forever trapped a September away from October,
dwelling on the faded reflection of a pleasant dream,
a dream I shared with you
Where we were skimming stones over fresh morning dew
and the first morning light warmed our faces
Now
as I walk alone
it just hurts my eyes
as Monday and Tuesday bleed into one
Here in the fourth season of our discontent
where daylight has diminished beyond all recognition,
the promise of rain reminds me of the tears still left to cry
We were meant to grow old you and I,
Kings and Queens of our own destiny
Instead,
we stand here on the edge of our existence,
forever trapped a September away from October,
dwelling on the faded reflection of a pleasant dream,
a dream I shared with you
Where we were skimming stones over fresh morning dew
and the first morning light warmed our faces
Now
as I walk alone
it just hurts my eyes
as Monday and Tuesday bleed into one
I become distracted by the bookcase and the names of all the writers whose work lives amongst the dusty shelves. Did they struggle with their words as I struggle with mine? Were their words so reluctant? Did they too find fault with the most casual of sentence, re-write the same paragraph over and over until none of the original beauty remained?
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