This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
I am a Summer-Man
Bright windy November
with the slap of cold sun sending frowns
and the absent rain not beating down
choleric substitutes of alcohol withdrawal
and spatial omissions of home fires stoking
empty remembrances of faded potential and
misplaced amorous regret
Haunted by the lingering smell of the souls of
last night's GUINNESS intake staying swell in
the nostrils which is in reality the gulf breeze blowing
gullshit down the river Liffey giver of life.
...And here I am Dublin pillaged and funded
en route to the hour-rate slog
shiny white commerce bleaching out of
windowsills distracting from rooftop
Chiaroscuro serenading a sky
which old junkie forgotten Sons and Daughters
will die under.
Boots tapping mock-goosestep to the ground
past a girl who speaks on her IPHONE to someone
who presumably not only wants to be seen speaking
to someone on their IPHONE but who also cares enough
to listen as the girl announces to all-and-sundry
human dodging on Bachelors Walk this fateful morn
that "I realised what my problem is Now! People
think i'm saying N when I'm really saying M!"
.....quite an existential crisis you got there, EH DOC?
("This girl's SITUATION belongs in a scenario in the TV show GIRLS which young
Woman Europe-wide have embraced as their spiritual saviour in an era of Consumer
impulse control. By placing the mundane generalities and perceived social failings
interpreted by young American female comediennes as instead representing a means and
self-forgiveness and attempted new-wave soft-core feminist self-celebration young American
actresses are inspiring a new generation of young woman to speak openly in a more in-depth level about everything that usually happens to themselves or some girl they know"-From "The Post-New Male Gaze: Interpreting Critiques of Stereotypically Feminized Pop Culture in Westley Barnes's "Notes on a Rant: The "Took Me Up To Dublin Where It's Famous" Notebook
This is the new white noise.
White Irish Male Critiques perceived socially-announced problems of White Irish Female over White Technology on a white morning in a grey city.
A grey city which subliminally stinks of shame and left-over guilt and of spending too much money on tecno-toys and new-improved nullifying debauchery and even rent during a significantly rough stretch of fiscal years. After a lot of years of white nonsense, really.
But this is where I took myself, and this is what happens once you take yourself here and this is where its famous for it.
Once Monto-based FUNDERLAND for the rich and royal turned over-waxie infested tenement slum district and second city of an industrialised economy waiting for the rest of the world to pay its way.
capital of green and squeaky saviours of the third-world who made some money and forgot about everyone else they used to know back home. Mr Poverty, Mr Humbleness, Mr Sense of Catholic Shame.
Until the rents got too high and they had to move home again.
no matters what it achieves, always putting itself down.
But I can adapt.
I've lived in Rathmines and Portobello before living in either was a
really hip decision to make.
I can find somewhere else before its gets gentrified
(after I find some job that's not worth complaining about
or I eventually leap into becoming to middle-class
to complain about it.)
enough that its a headache living there, too many men wearing the same winter
jackets. Too many packed restaurants and your local actually *preparing the tables
in the run-up to the Rugby game on Saturday.
The less of all that, the better for me.
I used to day dream about all of the above, honestly, but I
somehow managed to regain my innocence by living through it.
As for the girl who discovered self-realisation on her (through her?) IPHONE?
She'll be alright. If that's how she starts wading through the floodwaters of relating
herself to the world, misunderstood syllables, name-fails and all, this time in twenty
years, she'll be laughing. Don't worry yourselves, she'll adapt with the times.
Sure, Dublin's famous for it.
sorrow makes its way in
like an old friend bearing his treasured gifts
the photograph and letter
that you cannot bear to part with
he settles into your empty room
and sits with you in his silent way
while you grind your soul
slowly over the past and what you have lost there
he gently takes your hand and leads your heart
deeper into the rapture
of longing for what you cannot have
for that which is lost beyond redemption
she lay beneath headstone
in small Massachusetts town
fall leaves and now snow lay quiet blanket
on her resting soul
sadness bring you here in dream
from the miles where you lay
to stand unabashed weeping
in the cold dark of night
sorrow betrays you
but you cannot care
it consumes you
until you are blind to all else
until you are withered
lay down next to her and take your rest
none will blame
but your old friend
I have done dope like the pope says his prayers,pushed coke up the stairways that led up my nose,
blown porsche's and rollers,smoked them lined up like soldiers in syringes that marched through my veins I have injected insane through the pores of my pain and with angel dust injected again,
but now I'm a good boy, an out of the hood boy,informed and forming opinions which storm through the past.
The icy blast of awakening sings to me,brings it all home to me,
'Oh to be in England'
now everything is clear.
winded and chilled.
did your feathers get ruffled
as you flew in from the storm?
molting on my carpet
take a bath, birdy.
cleanse those wings
and wash your bony knees.
I don't want to see those nasty bruises
so cover your skin
and fly away again.
let me see those eyes, birdy.
have you a cold or
did the bitter cold
leave you blind?
better for you,
to see not with eyes but with frail
don't hate your world, birdy.
you're no more
than any other fucker
who shoves past you in the supermarket.
we all came out of a filthy goddamn uterus
so climb off your high horse
and get in line.
we're all just waiting around
til someone digs us hole
or lights us on fire.
if you can help it,
don't be a bastard.
out you go,
into the cold.
be glad for the sun in the mornings.
Silence in the large, empty home of travellers
Cozy and quaint in the early morning hours
As snow flakes gently grace the streets external
Alone with sleep somewhat elusive and the mind
Journeying through the past days adventures
Some amazing, some...odd
And preparing for what is to come
Just mere hours from now
Heart, soul, mind going with the flow
Now sleep, just a bit, revitalizing energy
the chill of a frosty kiss
the kiss of love given by the breeze
gliding as if alone on the rink
with only the sound of slicing ice underneath
I reminisce the highlights of the past
My little world built on a fantasy
As I, the queen for the moment
alone with my mind set free
only thinking of what is now
not caring about what could have been
because there a piece of my heart lies
on the ice
childhood, a piece of childhood coming back
not one to haunt
but one to bring a warmth in the midst of frost
that excitement and feeling like it was meant to be, all along
a place of belonging
now that I am older
I have not wholly let that world go
I remember and my heart flutters
love, comes back
and I only imagine
like a hopeless romantic
to find another fluttering heart on the ice
so we can flutter together
... g l i d e
I threw open the door to the sky
And the ocean rushed in like oxygen to the flame
The crescent moon cut like crystal glass
Casting shards of starlight from a distant past
Drawing pin-pricks of blood from my hands and my feet
Sending rivers of rosé which got lost in the sea
I heard distant laughter from an empty shore
I cried tears of joy and then drowned in it all.
thought i was victorious but i couldnt keep a promise,
thought i was stronger but i never forsaw this
broke, broke it all, upon an alter of chaos
they, they think they've won, but they dont know what they've lost
i know im still alive, life is the last thing they can cost
ill fight, until all they are is dust
demons, go back into the past, you're crushed
Walking through a freeway tunnel,
Getting hit by all the cars,
The memories crash into me
And all I see are stars.
Walking through a freeway tunnel,
Dodging all the cars,
The memories fly past me
A life lived behind bars.
Riding through a freeway tunnel,
Passing other cars
Safety behind glass
Lives lived in jars.
Riding through a freeway tunnel,
Shooting past the walls
Pull me over pig,
You don’t have the balls.