The trenches are callin’ again, trenches
That run alongside the country roads
Like disgruntled pups trackin’
The stench of desertin’ fowls,

These roads are now scuppered,
Littered with wailin’ canyons
Where rodents linger
To escape the gammy claws
That stir our last supper,

A supper that rudely stiffens
Like the mud upon a boot: brittle
And forgotten, uneven
And absolute,

And what of the smell?
The smell that comes
With the mud upon our boots:
It wafts into the trenches
Lickin’ our cracked irises, and
Stainin’ our grubby suits,

A stingin’ smell that paints
Our stomachs black, and
Sends boys to the dummy Saints
Who are teased at the plaque,

And yet, this abhorrent stench
Is only a pungent memory,
Much more dire stains
Await us over the rim, a rim
Emblazoned with thicket chains
And a bramble corpse, warnin’
The juveniles not to rush
The country walk.

Perhaps one day we can settle down, not today  
(and not the next)
And maybe not even a year from now but I hope
One day that   that ‘patch of trimmed grass’
                                                       (by the towering Oak tree.)
      Will be ours.

Spaces form between foreign fingers,
Resting hands go stale on oak tables
Where infatuation peeks and lingers.

Cups and candles placed like pawns
Waiting for battle, cups and candles
Lay between love and smiles.

Plates take their seats, carrying
Conversations and dripping mistakes
From one mouth to another.

Glasses touching and kissing,
Stirring desire into love, and
Teaching courage how to dance.

Knives and forks lay dormant,
Imprisoned to the landscape
By moving lips and perpetual talks.

Chatter comes floating, bound
To the bubbles and the foaming,
And ending at ears steaming.

Spilt love soaks the evening,
Washed out by late night dreaming,
Disguised as buoyant thinking.

The half-moon approaches
and mounts the great
charcoal sky,
showing the distant
town’s men
why she rules
the day’s end, she
silences the tide,  
allowing
the boat keeper
to reel in the line,
dragging
his weight closer
to
the land’s edge,
straining
his heavy worked
limbs, he catches
the wooden
sea-scarred masses,
stretched out
across the rim
of the
empty bay.

Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his
friends, wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of fantastical dreams, each
puff and ember smithed
his words, carrying his
mind into the cloud-stained
skies, where they danced
in the golden gleams, with
flocks of eagles, and
the blowing westerlies.

Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.

my mind
coloured
cloudy wet

steam
revealed
anxiety set.

I have chosen where I shall lay,
By the edge of the stage
Just before the actors and
The ropes that draw the curtains,
I shall sit here
Watching audiences
And making tallies
At the pass of each scene
And at the moments
Where I see
Through the performance
But I shall not applaud
And I do not hope to be seen,

On occasion I may smirk
Or cringe
At the nanny and the kids
Who line the front row, like
A single hair upon a chin
But nonetheless they sit
Strapped in
Eager to watch, but  
I fear they focus on the rot
That lays hunched
And gaunt, like a plague,
Oh, whatever happened
To the man
At the edge of the stage ?

“Bountiful
            Beauty”
broken
         beaten
burnt
         by
badly
          behaved
  boys
           bearing
  burly
               bodies
brusquely
                  built
             by
                “Boisterous  
      Benevolence”.

On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.

Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.

Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.

A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.

After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.

First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.

Buskers line the lanes of Dublin
Mirroring the beer taps in the city pubs,
One by one the tourists bustle in
Like grains of rice flowing into cups,

There is a ****** out on these streets
And the marching Garda are in pursuit,
Muffling the young kestrel’s tweets
And the boys who wear butcher suits,

Bodies line the lanes of Dublin,
Cutthroat lanes brushed with blood
Where the brownnoses come rushing in -  
The watershed has burst from the flood,

For, death is sown into these streets
And life has turned quaint in defeat.

Round and round the four walls,
A clock hand
Comes to a slow crawl,
Eager for time to stop.

(tick tock.)

Winding back and forth, tossing
Lemons and limes over the floor,
Across mother’s caring look
And through the double doors,
Landing at the base of the cat’s paws.

Rewind and wind back the clock,
Pick up a rock
From the naked garden patio
And lock the backdoor, where
You wait for 2 O'Clock.

(tick tock.)

Back inside, go and find
Those lemons and limes,
Stop with the tossing and
Anger, focus now on juggling
Limes and lemons and
Try to answer
Mother’s questions.

The bounders are saying that noon is coming early today,
And that we should retire before the sun is at her highest.
They tell us to lock our doors tight, and to throw away
Any desire to open them again, at least until
The bounders’ wives come knocking early the next day.
Strangely, they warn against closing our windows
Instead they state that they ought to be kept feebly ajar.

But I can’t sleep with an open window anymore.
The village doctor, who dresses in suit and tie
But likes to lie and speak rather astue, says it’s due
To some scar I acquired fighting the morally confused.

Every Wednesday, when I go to meet the ‘doc’, he
Assures me that he has some kind of qualification and
Always says not to worry about the specifics (or
His motives) as they would probably go over my head.
He starts our hour asking about the terror in the air
And the echoes of shriek-filled nights, and whether
They still remind me of that summer on the front line,
Without fail, and without remorse I always reply;

“Lovers sleep because we (the
Buoyant folk) gave our souls,
Our limbs and our speech, and
Now we live with these deep
Aches and fake laughs. These
Are what we gladly deserve”.

The words leave my mouth at a crawl, and
Take a miserable five minutes to complete.
The rest of my time at the quackery (this is what
The wife use to call it) is spent ironing
Over my other, less obvious, flaws. The doc
Says they are from much more recent wars,
And that I ought to use his miracle stock
To see if that succeeds in finding the cure.

The wife use to chuckle when I told her of my time
With the quacking man;

“More like barking mad!” she would exclaim,
Always through a snide but warm grin.

Those words always come quickly to mind
When I visit the doc, I shan’t tell him or he’d
Probably prescribe some strange empty remedy.
You see, the wife died a few years ago, not long
After my hate for open windows began. The doc
Thinks i’m over my wife’s permanent leave and
He even believes that i’ve started courting again.
I even told him once of a woman named ‘Claire’
Who would regularly visit my home to cut my hair,
And that on such an occasion we had started an affair.
The doc readily consumed this lie (reminding me
Of why the wife called him a fraud), and I sniggered
Into my elbow crease so he wouldn’t catch on.

The wife sits on the mantelpiece now, watching
Me from above the evening embers that light up
The eerie and solemn nights. I often converse
With myself, pretending the wife still listens but
I know her role was revoked from the world.
Alas, I am forced to play her part but I am afraid
There are few words left now, only mocking
Phrases for the quacking man and the barking mad.

I have stolen from men
And I have stolen
From God; pawns,
Bishops and
Chess boards, bits
And bobs
That escaped creation
But I suspect it is all
Mostly fraud, or
At the very least
Just mundane and
Flawed,  

Alas, I shall stash it
Without a sound, but
Where do I hide my hoard
If those who come snatching
Aren't far off,

Where do I repent
For my crimes, and where
Does this robber of time
Find himself when the day
Has come to an end
And there
Are no more locks to pick,

When the candles
That keep the rooms lit
Devour themselves
And the night
Comes crawling in,

When the crows retire
Their thieving beaks
And refuse to sing,

Where
Does forgiveness lurk
In this great mess, is
There a church
Behind the curtain
Or has the robber
Laid a curse
Upon that too,

And tell me, does
The devil wear smiles
And glee
When she visits
To ask for the lock
But not the key, or
Is it you
Who visits her
To pay up what is
Long overdue,

When will it all end,
The thieving
And the pleading, the
Hapless exchange
Of leaking plans
From uncut hands,

No one now is listening
And all the ears are closed
To the ******* hands
That touch
Strangers’ hearts
Without a sound,

And now I presume
To ask; when
Can I steal the ark
And watch
As my guilt struggles
And drowns.

When our light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Bloated but empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

For this is their retreat, the voices
Of “wake up, wake up” are tired now
And have little reason to compete,

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Waiting on the curb in my damaged demeanor -
I shall say;

“I am unmoored and I am uncrowned,
I have fallen from the cracked marble cliffs
And I have been banished to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed -  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

And the crowds will reply
In their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

My wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands appear to bleed red,
Guilty hands that forget
To tow the line
And knead the bread,

Now I sit dipped in the gutter
And I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create,  
The words that I bleed
And paint
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

When the light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in existence; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with docile smiles
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children grasping red balloons
Or of men washing up teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand, waiting, on the curb
I shall say,

“I am Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the pearl clouds and
Tasked to seek a time weathered  
Question”.

I do not think
They shall believe me
When I try to tell them
And I do not think
They shall understand.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will do, it is where
I have made my bed,
I shall lay
Wings clipped and
Smile cracked, hands dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -
These words that I muster
And create
Take the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they snigger and
They slither, intertwined
And brittle
They pass on thinner
Than before.

The light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in the universe; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children
Grasping red balloons
Or of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But they are so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand here, waiting, on the curb
In my damaged demeanor
I shall say,

“I am crowned Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the clouded glory, and now
Tasked to seek a question, a
Time-weathered question”.

And the crowds
Will reply in their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings,

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you stand
Upon the ledge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay
With my wings clipped and
Smile cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands which sit dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are sealed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be heard,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create (these words
That I bleed and paint)
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

When the light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Half-bloated, half-empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

Their imperial chatter of “wake up!
Wake up!” reminds me of my choices,
The choice to wear knitted coats
And button-up sleeves, perhaps
If I wear a hat, the voices shall cease ?

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Balancing on the curb in my puzzled clothes -
I shall profess;

“I am uncrowned but I am dressed, and
They have banished me to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed
Where all that can be said,  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

The crowds will reply
In their final utterings
And frayed mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

Here, my wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, it is only my
Hands that appear to bleed
This deceased shade of red,

Here are my belongings:
The rumours that are soaked
And promised - the words
That are often misread
But never misspoke,

And with my tongue dipped in the gutter -  
I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates have closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead ?
I fear that I am dead.’ ”

But I am not yet dead, my
Pulse still breaths see, it
Marches on without cowardice, it
Rallies my heartbeat
And commands my legs to charge -
  
Down, down, down the crevices
And the isolated paths, the
Uncharted cracks
And the unironed creases
Where ill bachelors linger
And their estranged daughters
Snigger; “my daddy is
Dying, look at him quiver
And squirm, doesn’t he
Remind you of the worm!”,

I do hope they ignore me, if
Only they knew
How fragile I have become
They would bombard me
With lethal profanities,  
Anchoring my ears
To their vile screech, and
I speak, and on I speak;

“Be kind to the gentle man,
Let him speak to the birds
If it pleases him,

Buy him a loaf of fresh bread
So that he may feed them, and
Listen to what he has said;

‘Am I dead ?
Indeed, I am dead.”

There will be no obituary
In the Sunday paper, nor
Any grieving stones
In the Vicar’s lawn, and
No bereavement cake
On the Baker’s counter,

(Oh, however will they mourn ?)

There will be no joy left
To cure the funeral blues
And no pick-me-ups
In the mornings after news,

There will be no murmurs
From the Sisters
And no whispers
That slither through
The cracks in the doors,
There will be no answers
Of any sorts, there
Will be no answers at all,

Everything is trivial now,
All null and dispersed
And the light
That was diminished
Has up and fled
To a vacant universe,
Where all that can be said;

“Am I dead ?
Is this what it is to be dead ?.”

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall mimic
The winged coal, and pick
Deeper at the ground, do
They seek food ? Or is it
Purely to play their role ?

They do not nest
In burrows in the earth, nor
In homes made of dirt, but
They have found their place
In the somber alleys
Of some wrinkled face.

Today is a crow day, a day
To wear a beaked mask
Of prestige, to uphold
My place as a distant link
In the chain, a lonely son
Of shadows and liberty.

I have become fond
Of their mischief, the way
They coo on repeat
At passing dogs and other
Furry things, I think
They only wish to be seen.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall yearn for the wind
And some sharp change
In the weather, I hope for clouds
To conceal my dull eyes
And my betrayed wings.

I have never seen them
Lose their obsidian gleam, are
They careful with their coats
Or is it luck ? Or perhaps
They are the directors
Of all things lost.

Today is a crow day, a day
To stare with guilt
And envy, a day to peck
At redundant trinkets
That lay abandoned
On half-built bridges.

Alas, I do not know much
About the crow, but I have
Noticed when they linger
And when they go, when
They tire and
When they cease.

Today is a crow day, a day
To be whisked into
All the chaos and glee
That persits
Through echoed existence
As this feathered fiend.

Duty is a dynamic affair.
Often it is a hurricane, storming in unannounced
And breaking
Your habitual customs. Causing terror to your previously calm
Demeanor. Flying in abandoned tasks
Longing for completion, and
Trivial ordeals
Nagging for deletion.
It reminds you in its booming tone
What should have already been done, long ago.
It’s breeze carries guilt and distress, forcing
A haze of sickness upon your chest.

Duty is a dynamic affair.
Showing itself, on the occasion, through
A mere stomach ache.
A constant weight on your body, a perpetual reminder
Of what must be done.
What others demand from you.
What you demand from yourself. It will
Cry and cry into
Your fragile ladened
Insides.
Overbearing all other burdens, tearing
Away at your exhausted heavy eyes.
Bursting your gut, convincing you to bleed out
In rivers of remorse. Wishing
You paid attention sooner
To the looming business
You were too eager
To neglect.

Duty is a dynamic affair.
Waiting patiently like a
Biting snake. Hidden in the
Long tasks tangled, and grasped
Around your tilted feet.
It camouflages in shades of doubt, becoming
More and more invisible to your
Lazy fleeting sight.
It will strike when your
Mind is practicing indecision and your tongue,
Poor diction. Piercing
Your relaxed skin, numbing the rush
Of the draining venom injected
Into your blood flow. It will sit
There until you are entirely drenched
In the stench of duty satisfied.

Mother sits downstairs, ear glued to the phone
Chatting eccentrically to faces and voices unknown.
Father stares at a screen filled with numbers and
Names of people and places causing his frustrations.
Sister dwells a few towns over, and brother reeps
In his rewards, often found in splendour
At some foreign resort.
These siblings share many things, fruits and offerings
From fleeting days past, occupied by long nights grafting
At the pen, paper and graphs.
Also a brother, who is younger and half the laugh. He perches in his room,
Strapped to his chair and like his father, stares at screens
Where beaming colours, instead of boring numbers, cause
His frustrations and late slumbers.
Perhaps this is why he has such strange dreams?

Oh, Father Time
how do you dance?
whilst not looking back
but perpetually trudging on
tell me dear old man,
what is the secret to
keeping up with the clock?

Oh, Father Time
why do you never grieve?
but witness everything end
forever lost from your gaze
dear, you must be very lonely
does it bother you when they leave,
or do you not have the patience?

Oh, Father Time
do you ever get tired?
wanting to retire far from here
or do you find joy in all this
all this movement of ideas
and detailed emotions
what would make you quit, my dear?

Winter arrived on Tuesday,
She blew upon my door
And delivered a new batch
Of the flu: fit with
Waterfall nostrils, blocked
Up thoughts and
A bag of half-licked lemon
Flavoured strepsils.

I couldn’t believe my luck
When I found a sache
Of nausea too!

FOR YOU ALONE.

For you alone
The crows will prepare a hymn,
An all so blessed coo -
A gentle chime beckoned only to you,
Hear it well
Or hear it not at all,  just know
  It was for you, my
                                        darling  
                                                     you.
Feed the timid birds  
       Upon the garden wall
And remember to smile
As you do, that exalted  
                                       smile
       You give to all,

And when
     The morning chorus
Sees the stars
            And the moon
It is  only because
   I am bereaved
         And  
                Missing you.

Often they approach
In their passive strides
Intrigued as to what
But never why.

Out there hides mischief made,
Adorned in the smiles of tariffs
And trades
But in here, in these construed
And garnered walls
Slumbers the chief of miss timing
And improper confiding.
Untalented men take fruitless lies and
Place them brick by brick, until they
Stick, stick,
Stick. A miss timing at this point
Will mark the novice liars, and
Blemish their masked desires. Perhaps,
It’s best to leave this hapless labour
To the more well-tempered neighbour
So that they (like us) can weave
In the lies and lust
Of saying ‘I love you’ rather
Than naught. Perhaps,
This is the better choice, to lock
The voices inside, and silence
Those ever so distraught by our
Unconditional decisions and thoughts.
It is unanimous then, the neighbour
Shall take the job and you
(the inexperienced boy)
Shall vacate your dreams, and bow
Down to the universe like a
Daft begging dog. Perhaps,
Then (and only then) we ought to throw
The inexperienced boys asunder
So that they may learn
How to dance with the thunder.

The kind hand chased
the loveliness from the
page, carving a path
through his chest and
filling it with rivers
brushed morose,
abstracting his vision -
but through this blur
he builds a bridge,
placing a plank for
each memory that aches
for he intends to cross
this trench in which
the loveliness left.

Trapped now are we,
Encaged behind the curtains
Like rogue hares traversing
The winding canyons
Of travellers’ dreams,

Hares that beat the dust
Beneath their tired feet
And hares who do not lust
For grass beyond their reach,

Hares beating dust
Into the slits
Of sabbatic sheets,

Dust that sits
And dust that seeps
Into the wilted corpses
Of knackered beasts,

And now, those hares,
They look upon me -
A silence lost
In our final dreams.

How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
My hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I do not care
To mend them but I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall
Laugh as Dante did
When he painted
That world.

How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
Now my hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I
Do not care to mend them
But I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall laugh
As Dante does and
Perhaps, I shall dance
As time has done.

help.
come rescue my dying mood.
   he's playing in the dirt again.

    digging his way to some dead-end
  for now, he welcomes the filth
    and finds comfort amoungst
      the earthworms for they
are as unhappy as he, lost
in the great mass of the ground
   and once they find their way
out they are eaten, or trodden upon
  oh,  it's not easy being an earthworm
  and my mood understands that,
    they often discuss who has it worse

but in the end it doesn't matter,
  they both find peace eventually.

Through the drawn kitchen blind lurks a hand
Resting upon the island mantelpiece
Where a deserted ham resides.
The hand extends from the crippled man’s gaze
And he simply seizes the ham, traversing the kitchen maze.
He takes the ham to the second stair.
Here is where he retires - the second stair
Is where the deserted ham and crippled man shall expire.
Where man becomes ham but retains his crippling attire, and
Ham becomes man staying lost and yet still desired.

Heaven would be naive to willingly believe that this,
This strange analogy, is indeed about a ham and a mere man.
Rather, a man is nothing but a mere ham.
His life begins as someone else, perhaps a pink perfumed piglet.
Born into mud and stuffed to the brim with dirt laced love.
A ham, like man, comes from a humble and simple dawn but is
Swiftly thrown into a larger lie or a shortcrust pie.
A lie of paradise and quiet, a pie of mustard and thyme.
We, like the ham, are ripped from our genesis
And forced to be something sublime.
Something needed,
And something that never gets the time to bleed.

Man is to be consumed just like the solemn ham.
We are sold as ideas and ideals. And never separated
From those very same stale ideals and ideas.
We are what we conceive and we conceive what others
Wish us to be; never do we truly conceive our own reality.
And often we will wait aimlessly, not at the kitchen side,
But by the side of our lovers and others.
The resting ham sits in its juices, taking in the rosemary
And amber, sticky honey.
Man also sits in an array of flavour; tastes of dark thoughts,
Fleeting romance and persistent boredom.
We soak up our own shortcomings and we leak out all and any
Chances to not be eaten.

Man is devoured not by others but by reason.
The very tool we use to debate, learn and
Understand the ever changing seasons.
But what of the ham? The deserted tasty ham.
Well, it like man, is either shovelled into a waiting gut or
Left out to rot, and befriend dust.
Never to decide when they cease, but both
Are destined for the grave nonetheless.
What has left the man crippled and the ham deserted?
The realisation that man and ham are the same.
Man leaves the ham to rot
On the kitchen counter top, sending it to be removed
From the world. Never to be consumed. Never to be consumed.
Man’s neglect of the ham is a neglect of connection,
Man has crippled himself in hopes to remove association.

And so, the crippled man
Extends his hand in hopes
To regain the deserted ham.

Now come
Collect my damaged mood
Rid my darkened mind
Find where it aches
And speak to it

Drag it from the deep
Hold it
Let it burn
And poison our feelings
It was sowed long ago
And now ages

It weighs more now
Affects me deeper
Finds my weakness
And doesn't give warning

Does it hurt?
I'm not sure yet

This morning I dug up John Lennon’s grave,
I needed to tell him a bunch of people from the internet were outraged
And demanded an apology,

Squint-eyed, he chuckled
And asked me if i’d ever listened to ‘Jealous Guy’, and
Then proceeded to tell me to ‘*******’
Without even hearing my reply,

Given who I was talking to, I obliged
And walked away untangling my earphones,
After awhile I located
The song he recommended and
Pressed the play button as soon as it had downloaded,

It was an odd feeling jamming my thumb into John Lennon’s face
Just to hear his music, you see
The play button was perfectly placed
On the bridge of his nose
Just under the iconic silver wiring of his round glasses.

4 minutes and 18 seconds passes
And i'm left thinking;

‘He hasn’t a grave, he was cremated
But at least I found the apology
The people on the internet wanted’.

When the kettle
Has finished and boiled
And the Sunday eggs
Have been spoiled,

When the man who begs
Dissolves into the street
And the magpies
Squeak their last tweet,

Will they still need me
And will they still see me?

When the young boys  
Have been found dead  
And the obituaries
Have been read,

When all the red berries
Have sunk and wilted
And the groom
Has succumbed and jilted,

Will I find the end
And will I be whole again ?

All-knowing am I
Of the privilege that comes
With being a son, entangled
In his Mother’s love,

And that, (He wishes
You to know)

Is more than enough.

A thick, musky haze - clouds of
   obsidian - took claim to the city,
   it was a gift from mother, a debt paid
   for all the efforts her children
   gave to reach her demise,

   it was a nasty smell, one to end
   summer and spring, but to them, it
   was the smell of victory, for mother
   had died and the world was left
   for us to ruin as we please.

Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass.
Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,

‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there
For far too long?’

I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Bare but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy pistachio shells. And
To snigger
At the dancing girls
After a slurred
Sinister joke.

I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow-skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
Do we reject their
Raunchy behaviour
On account that they
Saved our saviour?
I speak.
And I speak,

‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home
Of the Holy ghost.’

Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
We play.

I am aching and I am grey.
And
I am aching and
I am grey.
Do a man a favour, and do
Refrain - please
Do not stay.
Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Rot. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway, until
They graciously decay.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Endlessly lingers.

Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer
Has moved on
To some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both
Surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour
Once the streets
Begin
To busy again.

Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass. Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,

‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there for far too long?’

I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Empty but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy sea shells.
Seemingly an innocent task and yet so pointless
To ordinary folk.
I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
I speak.
And I speak.
‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home of the
Holy ghost.’

Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
Play.

I am aching and grey.
And I am aching and grey.
Do a man a favour, and
Refrain - please
Do not stay.

Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Decay. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Happily lingers.

Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer has
Moved on to some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour once the streets
Begin to busy again.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and scraping wings as they go
And maybe they will dare to disturb
The still liquid reflections,

But I do not think they will look at me,
Not in the mirrors on the street floors
And not during the purgatory
Of waiting out the bus stop storms,

And the magpies come in twos,
(Nana told me
What that meant once)
But now I forget, and now I refuse
To believe that there is any meaning
In two magpies singing, alas
I do not think they will sing for me.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
That surround the crowds
Of the Old Steine
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and washing
Their wings as they go, ignorant
To the faces that
Ache for their homes,

But I do not think
They will look upon me;
Not in the mirrors
That mask the street floors
And not during this purgatory
Of the bus stop storms.

And yet, I look upon them
In hopes they gaze at me
But they never will and
Nor will they mourn
When I am summoned to leave.

You wear this crown of miseries
  not on your head
  but deep inside your memories

soon,  

  it will find you again
  in a bleak coronation
  to welcome your reign.