Poetry

Romantic Ireland’s Lazarus Jape

Remember when they limit your ability to speak,

People had to die to earn your five-day week.

The status quo, remains just so, if nobody objects,

Brazen burglarising that insults your intellect.

Though I love a pumping party, I was never less excited,

For the parties up in Dublin t’which I’ve never been invited,

Political and critical, of the people, not the state,

The state we’re in, how maudlin, they sneer with unmasked hate.

Remember through the hardship and the hunger and the pain,

The necessary austerity, the laws and lows, insane.

Remember when they limit your ability to speak,

People had to die to earn your five-day week.

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Poetry

Morning-time Motorised Ritual Becomes Venue for Criticism

Slithering sycophants,
Cradled by the bosom of benevolent business,
Intelligence never equaling greed.
Toss them pigs some more feed.
Empty days,
Empty years at sea, floating in obscurity.
I thought I would be famous, I was wrong.
Everything I want is gone.

Grey and dismal in spring and in summer,
Graceful and hopeful yeah she was a stunner.
What the hell is joy anyway?
Gone for eternity, here for a day.
Where the hell is your pride anyway?
No self respect without drama and sex,
Fit so fake with your protein shake.
Pout shut out, your open mouth,
Never produced anything of value;

Picture perfect what a bitch you became,
Flicker frenzy I remember your name.
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Poetry

An Ode to Hope

Do not dismiss hope in favour of fear,

Hatred takes hold in hearts that revere,

The negative spaces that outline your soul,

Driving a wedge to fill in the hole.

Whole and hole are one and the same,

Freedom is taking on some of the blame,

Accountable always and willing to change,

Know when to destroy and when to arrange.

The love that we hold inside of our hearts,

Rusted and rushed and made of false starts,

Is love none the less, emotions run high,

Without an embrace we may as well die.

Open your heart to the warmth of the sun,

Attempt beyond heartache to love everyone,

This life is a fairground, the world is a ride,

A coming and going like wind and the tide.

Mechanistic in nature I cling to the bits,

The littlest fragments of hurt when it hits,

Frail like the kindling that burns in the hearth,

Over and over before I could start.

We are not the computers that we use to take flight,

The tools don’t define us, they bask in our light,

A machine with perspective and a heart made of gold,

for all it’s misgivings tries to care for it’s old.

Open your heart and open your mind,

Remember our singular similar kind,

Strength is in numbers and the power of word,

Ensure you are clearly and effectively heard

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Poetry

Shields – a quick reflection

Your greatest gift was when you tore,

My heart out of my chest.

The cavity you left behind,

Made me work to be my best.

You ask for my forgiveness,

I tell you not to fret,

Your gifts of shells and shields from pain,

Are the best i’ll ever get.

You shower me with sorrys,

Darling, don’t you see?

I realised i lived for you,

Instead of being me.

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Poetry

The Lipstick Obliterate

Lips kissing lips,

Embrace and intertwine
Sepa-ha-rately fingertips.
Each face was like a canvas, to place a piece of art,
And softly as it pressed, it worked into the heart,
Believing for a minute: moments, tender and sublime,
Wasted time.
Fracturing a godsend, artist, lover; this miscarriage of justice is a note.
Untrue ripple spread in perfect circled lines, to bail the water from the boat.
Crying: save the souls of sinners, never terse when saying worse.
Drive body to the brink of death, drive shotgun in the hearse.
Time dreaming time,
When whiskey turns to brandy,
When brandy turns to wine.
Celebrate the constitution, enabling this woe,
Cut to little pieces; reality — all a show.
Casting and characters, reels and lines.
Fishing for compliments, pulling up mines.
Desolate in the room, dark and dismal, where love long ago lost.
Clarifying emotion, adrift in the ocean and bitter as frost.
Burning the truth to protect the core;
Wasted time, as before.
Begging to stay, on the walk to the door.
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Poetry

Waxy Superman

Dancing on the decking fingertips in the air,

Softly landing feet, move now as a velvet pair.

Take another sip from the cup and twist a face,

The angels and the devil drift around in this place,

The angels sing so sweetly, fortitude and bliss,

They wipe away memories of each tender kiss,

Fortunately recorded every whisper once heard,

Still can hear the talking, though they cry at each word.

If this waxy superman is melting in the sun,

We are become him and for that we are undone,

The fascist archetypals drag all honour away,

Luscious and careening toward the bright and humble dawn of another glorious day,

No longer with a word to say,

When drifting through the universe we spy a vessel hence,

Driven beyond reason to catch a glimpse of a common sense

Drudgery and viciousness are all that they had planned.

Christ the redeemer, wine on command.

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Poetry

Some Morning Ode

Some morning ode

Cold and flaccid, with the old smell of loneliness,

Solitude at night, no stench of beauty, nor perfect sunrise.

Lost in your warmth—the world it seems,

For a moment: true and good.

And the Angels and choirs sing,

Glory to God if he really exists;

With burning aftershaves,

Alarm clock,

Tick tock.

A percentage of alcohol applied to face,

Never to tongue.

This bottle is unique

I would drink of your liquor another night,

Another lustful slumber,

My leg wrapped around you.

My body beside you,

The sex of sleep.

Cold and tired and lonely,

Old man.

Tomorrow is the night the star exploded,

And old wise-men would surely know,

Which way to go?

Guided by celestial bodies,

With no uncertainty.

They pray to thee,

Oh virgin of virgins,

And bring some gifts,

To sooth your pain.

Your kind will not be seen again.

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