Walking down the edge of a moonlit beach
I feel the cool sands shifting beneath my feet

Father once warned me to stay clear of the sea
But I’m already drowning, what difference is it to me?

The breeze runs through my hair.
I hear the crashing of waves, and smell salt in the air.

I walk slowly to the waters edge, ankle deep in the tide.
The waters wash against my skin and send chills down my spine

It’s but gentle reminder, of what is to come - and my only escape, from the things that I’ve done.

I’m up to my neck now, and there’s no turning back
The moonlight fades out and my vision goes black

I feel a sigh of relief as I release my last breath
And let the seas take me, into the darkest of depths.

You’d trot up to me like an aged horse
our pasture matted down by our footprints
I’d ask you the same advice I always do
You don’t reply, that’s never the issue

They get jealous and insecure, but you’re nothing more than an old friend

One hundred years ago
My Mammy was just three,
The exact same age as me,
When she sailed us across the sea,
All those years ago.

Just lately,  just now,
I said Mammy's Mammy's name out loud.
What was that, I asked.
For sure her name's not been said
For many, many years.
Margaret Duffy
A dog barked.
So I said my mother's:
Mammy
A breeze furled the window sheers.

The dog continued to yelp,
So I said her other names louder:
Brigid...........Nellie

I will keep the wind inside me,
And allow the dogs their day;
Your names will still be called upon,
In stress or tranquility.

You ever picture insanity?
Monstrosity
Barefoot wineglass catastrophe

I'm hardly the one
You left behind,
Twenty odd years ago;
The suit fits much better,
Now I'm in the show.
I'm not using slight-of-hand,
No smoke or mirrors,
Just running sand;
The big tent long left town.

I know the four directions,
And how my wind will blow.
And even at a four way stop
I know who has the right-of-way.
And when it's my turn to turn,
I'll step on the pedal and spin my wheels
And drive myself insane.

I knew he wasn’t a poet, a writer, a prophet or lover in the way he never came back.

I feel so

compelled

to bash your head in
with my love.

When you're dead,
I'll fashion a paintbrush
from a lock of your hair.

I'll paint you on the ceiling
in violent shades of burgundy.

I'll lick the bristles clean.

I'll paint my taste buds
with the vibrant flavors

of your love.

I'll craft a cradle from your bones,
and wrap it taught with your dermis.

Your

marrow

will seep out,

like the

love

from my heart.

I'll keep you.
Forever.
A shrine.
A memento.
A collectable.

A macabre reminder
of my

love.

My friends all talk to each other,
sometimes they address me.
Only every now and then though,
and usually to try and sell something.
My friends are voices, voices in the car.
Voices in my apartment,
voices coming from afar.
My friends are always there,
always willing to talk.
My friends don't really know me,
but I know all of them.
I know them well,
they share everything.
My friends are the voices,
I listen to them so that
I don't have to listen
to myself.