Silence held firm in the rising tides of chaos,
on this last day - Humanity but a theory
scribbled across a burning horizon, incomplete,
smothered in confusion - Darkness reigned.

Enveloping the last evening, amidst the austerity,
of light. Here sat Humanity, no flash to savor,
the ruination of thoughts - belief in hope,
the last resort of the soulfully challenged.

An' so here rests the Poet, abundant with wordy,
resource, in times so pensive, we dream,
we breath, we spin a comforting web - helpless,
As the last minutes tick softly, calming the flame.

As the last minutes of the last evening soak into this last day.

The importance of new life so easily forgotten,
Common sense, family, friends hurriedly lost,
Never did he offer simple respect they deserved,

“…how conceited it was to think of just me,
This angel, now gone, I just..failed to swerve,
Too late, teasing my ego with stolen youth,
Selfish pleasure – my starter, sickly dessert,
My main course, served cold an’ breathless,
This image, this perfect life, this Innocent,
Head bowed, my remorse is too little, too late,
My daughter alone, tired of waiting, asleep,
A kind, faultless wife – unaware of the horror,
Hand-cuffed an’ charged with manslaughter,
My eyes forever tearful, I now see in my mind,
The grief of the mother in this shameful theft,
Haunting me through the past and the future,
The darkness I have left, the unknown space,
I am so sorry, I was drunk and driving too fast,
Numb in what I am for the childish careless fun,
I am a father now to have realised - I have taken,
I will never forget, for she will never be gone,
That I, John Cassidy, have caused this death…”

The remorseless will always be quiet, alone,
To their pain, their old acquaintance until an end,
Love lost, hurt forever loaned from the senseless.

Am why be come
I does me back
Writing my or? to
****? mind is haunt
Or chatter this and
Thinking so? All teach
Out can my me
Loud? it past why?

Such a pity it is to see,
With one’s own eye to such degree,
Alone she walks – baby asleep,
With tired eyes of those who weep,
The nights and days of simple youth,
To ‘Single Mum’ from ‘Really Cute’,
Has taken all she used to know,
All pale from an innocence glow,

She looks ahead with hopeful gaze,
“A gorgeous child” a person says,
She smiles and asks the lady ‘How are…? ’,
The baby cries – ‘It doesn’t matter…’
‘Don’t mind him he’s always like this’
“The crying of babies I won’t miss”,
The woman states; and walks away,
The girl she wishes that she would stay,

She scowls ‘Why’d you ruin it for me? ’
‘All is wanted is some company’
It’s up and down the path for now,
Straight toward the familiar town,
Where people stare and pass remark,
And wonder where their cars can park,
Pushing on, head up, turns to look,
Not too long unless she’ll be stuck,

Facing sniffs from unwanted nose,
Comments on “babies matching clothes”,
Running through her mind as she walks,
Adopted mothers with their spiteful talks,
“You must do this and not do that”
“You must work off, girl, all this fat! ”
Life’s hard enough without ‘advice’,
‘You do that as I’ve made my choice’

Finally past - into the store,
Not to listen to anymore,
“Concentrate girl! ” ‘Oh! What to buy? ’
Fumble for change, tear in her eye,
Pizza frozen and baby food,
Back home, for now, in a worse mood,
‘Lonely I may be – not like them,
I have this child – a costly gem’.

This is time – a mans enemy
Stalking like silence
There is woman – a mans answer
Looking for patience
There is nothing – a mans excuse
Talking of grievance
This is time – a mans enemy
A misery indeed.

It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,  
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.

Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.

People are essentially cowards.
Push them to their apathetic limits,
Through the ‘meh’ an’ sighs,
To the over-exaggerations,
Do it not for dramatic effect,
Polite nods, scattered sarcasm,
False recognition, Luke warm,
Greetings!

Trust me, Believe in me,
I could be…

These internalisations of thought,
Of what, whit, all I have,
Are without sponsored hope,
As we are exposed to the unknown,
Take it easy on the way down,
To the ladder’s first step,
You’ll bow to the friend,
Who at first you skipped.

As I smoke on more,
As the moon rose, a thought arose in me,
Of what one wants an’ how to get it.

This life pondered through a yellowing ****,
Of a familial failure – this nervous trait,
Left to consider a stinging punch line,
Misuse of sincerity for the ease of hate,
Stuttered confidence in displaced harmony,
In time, smoking this from that an’ those,
Essentially to have an essence of an answer,
Rising from rambling, vacant empty prose.

As I decide,
As decisions go, I must resolve for me,
An’ find out where and when to get it.

These ‘internalisations’ of thought,
Torrentially pouring mind an’ heart,
Where to start - for pain; how to end,
Over-exposed, drifting in the known,
So I drag on another – four minutes lost,
Beguiled by the chokingly humid question,
Fooled I am, laid bare an’ decidedly unaware,
To lucid memory an’ casual resurrection.

As I stand,
As the truth riddles, the fear it strikes in me,
I know not what to get or how to get it.

I know,
Now.

His Small Dark Man; our minds lovingly serenaded,
through the warmth - the faint buzz from the downy
salubrity of a brain to which no bird ever flew on one wing!

An’ so clarity, somewhat vague, paid for by a sorehead,
Leaves us a solid truth; that men are forever at war with women,
Forever being defeated and accepting this defeat as Victory,

Minute wheels spin endlessly yet happiness is static,
Measured out to the minutest drop – never increased,
Never depleted – Unchangeable in all lives; Men or Cabbages!

Simple visions of a life less extraordinary with faith in the ability,
To bid farewell – a gesture that had in it a fine dignity,
And yet a terrible finality; I must speak to Maurice more.

This seems a playful satire on the mighty Saltire
prewritten amidst a highland lowland silence.
In the hand of the wise-to Queen, or St. Andrew,
eternally akin to this 4-piece jigsaw'd island.
The actors publicly casted, professional amateurs,
notably despised an' yet a country's finest.

The setting old an' knew, new an' known, with
a neglected audience primed for mass evasion.
An' piecemeal parliaments, scrolls nor parchments,
have no place in this covert-of-sorts invasion.
For the stage be set with indebted goodwill,
through empty words in empty declarations.

The plot is thickening quick to a household broth,
of misdirection, miseducation an' artificial lie.
That binds the truth as if truth could be told,
of national strength safe in obvious disguise.
Common wealth paid for by the oblivious poor
man's pocket, pulling loose a threadbare tie.

Nae t'shakespeare'd lines, no to broken records,
No to smug derision of the true an' earnest,
Yes to insincerities that make you sober or worse,
that shine up their last of royal seal varnish.
No to sticky-finger-printed brass doorknobs,
of which for Scots to knuckle down an' burnish.

No to pious voices calling to brothers in arms,
leave this pound of flesh in vacuous debate.
Yes to monopolies of endless fields an' wind,
an' guards sat on a wall which have no gate.
Alas freedom remembered, stamped an' framed,
was never a win but loss to sovereign'd hate.

Left to aged members of past an' proven fable,
to cry the Nae's an' Yay's of a borrowed tongue,
to the masses still confused, still right thinking,
of who to believe an' who to defile. Now hung
out to dry the many years of engineered deflation,
left alone with answers still evolving, still young.

A year from now a collusive conclusion made,
to this ending – the poet an' playwrights success.
Devolving the ever-changing, deceptive blurbs,
to inveigh a reasoned No with a passionate Yes.
Leaves me mawkish for my country as it devolves,
An' I the fraternal gambler with only a flighty guess.

Recognise your flesh. Recognise the life you have.
Recognise the absurd use of this bargaining chip.
Social norms which press you heavy, all the time,
be they Catholic, Protestant, Tory, Liberal or hip,
Recognise you can discard them, this very moment,
An' become a leader of this Clydebank anchored ship.

Let no acid be sprayed unless to sting open the eyes
of the blind. Let no more our words become unseen.
Let no more the voices of hatred speak. An' so leave  
conflict where it belongs, for crowing minds to preen,
In the past for histrionics. No more of them an' us.
Step into freedom. Free, as you always have been.

There is no ****** in relationships these days!
He proclaimed, swinging amble waist in my direction,
Just them public displays of affection Or PDA’s:
To those afflicted with ‘abbreviationithis’ (ABT) for short,
We are in the custody of a soulless generation,
Bathed in apathy, shorthand speaking, glass-tapping,
Pampered glad-hands glad-handing, over-perfumed,
Statements of exaggerations - investigated in toilets,
On lifeless screens, no skill of conversation required.
Larry continued, unabated by the stares an’ giggles.

****** is what counts; it makes up a sizeable portion,
Of love at first sight, not online but in person,
An animal magnetism takes hold an’ before you know..
You’ve ****** yourself and your attraction in the flesh,
The art of being undressed yet still dressed is an art,
Too easy are these poorly constructed witless lines,
Weak almost polite hugs, clearly awkward air-kisses,
Perceived as the innocent dance of modern romance.
How is anyone to know anyone lusts after them?
How is someone to know if not for someone’s ******?

I feared that I had stumbled upon an early night,
I’d been collared by this mongrel of a forgettable time,
His rigorous attention to showing this ******,
Serenading my embarrassment was now a highlight,
His ramblings long ignored, possibly insightful,
Cried out hilariously for proof of his master plan,
So for the devilment – I asked for a demonstration,
To appease my boredom of debating with this fool,
Larry motioned again; his eyes lit as much as his mind,
To a woman stood waiting, her desire for the taking.

I must warn you, ****** is not for the faint-at-heart,
No use shoving hips of wanting into a total stranger,
Catch the eyes first - leave some distance and discretion,
Smile and move silently – prepare to tell a story,
As with any manoeuvre, there must be some grace,
Double-check your manners an’ prepare for a feast,
Straighten your ready stance to deliver the clincher,
Smile again brightly with no hint of danger,  
An’ in a movement pincer-like yet working alone,
On a wing with no prayers – I’ll show you, my friend.

An’ so he did, sweeping toward this unsuspecting patron,
Larry had managed to scare, scatter and surprise,
This woman and many others, the beholder unwelcome,
The moral of this story on hold, he had slipped a hip,
Into her personal space, and nonchalantly she turned away,
He continued with his thrusting, his way of affecting,
The conversation – dead now for shock and unsettling awe,
She had strangled her anger and suspended her belief,
That a man would be so crass as to ****** her in public,
Accosted by her coldness, he returned to proclaim an ending.

I never said that ****** worked on the charmless,
The per-occupied, the rude, the shy or the frail,
I trust my ****** with one hand free for everything,
My other hand grasped on this lover’s Holy Grail.

It does take all walks of life, some stumbling some not,
To lust, to wonder for love, now left forever pursued,
So a question is forever lost – to ****** or not to ******?  
Deluded Larry had diluted - still I’d been left, amused.

“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”

They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,

Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’

They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,  
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,

They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.

Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,  
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung

He heard a last echoed clink of liquor-laden ice-cubes,
Stuck between two stools that screamed for company,
I gazed across his vacant stare to the barman –the silent DJ,

Professionally ignorant as I gestured my hoarse thirst,
I waited a little minute, another minute an’ just one more,
Enter our businessman, full-schedule, long-hauled to drink,

With a rib-eye steak of a face an’ breath surely barbecued,
Two satisfied cheeks, pink-puffed with brows fit for burial,
Teeth ground with tension but brighter than the lighting

A fungal-lung nose perched upon a smile that I could smell,
He plumbed himself wet-shave close to my stiffened neck,  
“..Hana Drink..?” (Silence) best to follow the DJ’s example,

(Bullish huffs) (Lips licked) “.. Ya’ll wantin’ a drink, Mister?..”  
Flustered by the company, I replied “..Non, Je think eh Je chi..”
A retort of sorts, faux languages not my degree, “..Leaba..Bed!”

Spluttered just at the end – an insulting first impression,
He seemed nervously joyous, loosened from being himself,  
Yet his trouser belt buckled, pulled tight to conversation level,

An’ Redwood-trunk hands, alive with the latest deal struck,  
“..Bedtime for us..” he bare-bawled, splitting my weary eyes,
His numbed arm clumsily flung around me, “..bedtime for us!..”,

DJ unmuted, the music paused, I mouthed softly “..just the bill..”
(Silence)
“..Who’s Bill?.. a friend?…Is he cute?.. So this drink?” I panic still.

I rolled my own tobacco tightly, lips pursed through a gormless grin,
As he, the idle Gean Canach, warming up, kisses a lonesome gin,
This dream as told to be his tonic - the bitter slice - so I begin...

Musing over beauty, his admirable hair, warholic an' fitted to wear,
Of Tartan-clad men whose ghosts have chequered stares,
An' Art, Free Speech, Faith, dipped in batter - much to his despair,

Of people, prickened purple as they blow a silent whistle,
To how the sun beams through heather-fields of shared pistols,
An' those scattered morsels of society, left to nothing but the gristle,

To how more questions than answers affect his whispered speech,
Yet he stirs mulling over youth and language receded to their peak,  
'...Come, I'll walk you back to your hiding place – safely out of reach...!'

Back home to talk of MacDiarmid and McFarlan, to agree and feel solemn,
As he explains that a poisoned bee carries but only poisoning pollen,
An' how a love of our country, for its freedom, is all we have in common,
  
He tells of the tears from the Nationalist, nation-less, who lives in arrears,
Of the ink further dried on the receipt of forced union; of some 400 years,
An' that of my friend the leprechaun; ****** on the burnt grass that he shears,

An' now he exclaims - '… Swallow the pound..! Gulp on its hardened flesh...,
...We are as separate -  the reluctant strawberry atop this eton mess...,
The majesty of our homes, as one, forever in a state of undress,

...We shall squander fortunes on entire pleasures dear to empty minds,
The resources of our country fixed to the crown with no benefit in kind,
Computerised Tesco's an' ****** at the BBC is all that we will find...'

It is time to take our leave; he has risen sharply an' yet crumbles into a seat,  
The fires of the red sun burn for independence with stomping feet,
My dream recited, I wander still, and turn to the fools an' scoundrels on the street.