oh god

hope has a still, small voice

how easy to fall
into old patterns

falling in love with a hurricane,
isn't nearly as dramatic as it sounds

She stood, with winter in her chest
And stars in her head.

I was content being the vessel.

grey carpet, yellow wall,
brown table, yellow wall,
blue seat, yellow wall,
and a **** coloured stain on the ceiling.
_______

shoulders pressed inward,
hands between thighs,
hair hanging in front of
detestable grey eyes.

but details matter,
red hands must smear
a crude-drawn picture,
on strips of brown-clear.

blinding and white
burning the table,
ten pages in all,
a statement from Abel.

attempt to explain,
better yet confess,
inky black clips,
secret, sudden cess.

bottle green, cautioning;
two lives lost
to action unseen.
golden is youth,
yet blue is the feeling,
all colour gone, body reeling.

Ethiopian sunrises are very beautiful, it would appear.

I feel like I am always in Addis
but I've yet to have seen it in the daylight.
Arriving in darkness was no different from the norm,
but I have to say I have been pleasantly surprised by this morning's offering.

Addis appears to be surrounded by peculiar bunches of mountains
that pile up on top of one another.
The dark blue has slowly been replaced by sky,
then yellow,
then pink,
then grey,
then mountain bunch.

I didn't sleep much on the plane.
From about Greece it felt like an age since I had last seen Irish soil.
Why is that?
What is it about travelling that allows time and space to become so closely tethered to one another? It's been barely twelve hours since
I left Sasha, Mum, and Dad in Dublin but it may as well be a year.
I can only hope that this feeling does not overtake me
come the 28th April.
I don't want to have to desperately cling on to the memories of Kiwoko
as they are eroded by the aeroplane's slipstream.

The mountains are getting clearer now.
Varying hues of blue and grey imposed on the horizon.
Off to the East the sky is burning with morning
through thick, white terminal lattice.

There's an impossible to miss radiance
scorching the jagged edge of this Eastern range,
yet it lingers almost imperceptible from the surrounding sky -
as if everything Eastwards is ablaze.

We sat on that old pier,
as the others crab-fished by.
I found my hands beneath me,
in an attempt to keep them dry.

I traced the outline of a mountain range
with my tired, tearful eyes,
and the sun pinned me to the concrete wall,
stripping me of any disguise.

The fresh wounds on my shoulder
still oozed their precious blood,
yet we talked of days still to come
and summers, oh so far ahead.

Yet for a moment I almost believed that
what I’d done had been undone
but you struck me with reality
and my walls came tumbling down.

We looked at each other,
in the wild, unsettling sun,
with the sea-surf sparkling blue
and voices of our distant friends

ringing of the new
and interesting discovery that one crab, no, two,
had broken through the green net -
maybe that was you.

when I was growing up,
our hallway had the most peculiar floor:
not quite carpet,
not quite planks,
but something in between.

like a wicker basket
stretched out over several metres,
or the rope you find
dangling off a dinghy's mooring,

it scratched and screened
at the soles of your feet,
tickling and tormenting
bare toes or
pulling the threads out of
well-meaning pairs of socks.

I hated it, or at least,
I thought I did —
until the day it was replaced by
laminate panels.

fake wood didn't cut it,
neither would expensive pile,
or any scraggly synthetic offering
to do the trick.

our painful, hessian homecoming
was a path to beds, and tables,
and welcoming arms.

it marked a definite departure
from sensible carpets and
suitable floors,
to the place between comforts.

for who would dally in a hallway that hurt?
or who would pause to feel the prickling,
pinching of strange interior decor?

of course, sense prevailed —
wood would come,
wood would stay,

and our peculiar, prickly past,
would become a story for some other day.

spiky heart
falling into my lap
pulling out the threads from my jumper on the way down

have you ever tasted the sting
of jagged love
as it finds the quickest way out?

for how was I to know
what I was never told?

am I the monster?

pitiful, broken boy. vile creature. twisted soul.

it all feels a bit trite now. I used to fill pages upon pages with that. a ceaseless wave of self-loathing. I wanted to do that tonight. I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to tear myself to pieces. just like the old days: endless tirades into whatever abyss presented itself. notes and poems, blogs and songs.

I even carved it into my skin.

"MONSTER" "PERVERT" "FREAK" "EVIL"

if you look closely you can still see the faint outlines of names I gave myself from my hips to my thighs.

but scars fade.
wounds heal.
tablets work (and stop working), counsellors work (and stops working), friends leave (and stop leaving),

nothing stands still. that once constant hum fades into the distance.

a new song takes its place.

just look at all the hope left in its wake...

all the friendships maintained. all the relationships built. all the late night calls and car rides to the beach. all the conversations and arguments. all the half-baked ideas and plans to change the world. all the cups of tea and petrol station tray bakes. all the last minute events. all the bickering and creating. all the faces glowing. all the plane, train, bus, and bike journeys. all the phone calls answered. all the wounds bandaged. all the ambulance trips and hospital visits. all the falling outs and friend drama. all the heartbreak and bellyache. all the pain and confusion. all the *** and prayer. all the tears and laughter. all the board games and secret shames. all the friends lost and friends gained.

there are lives worth living, and people worth loving.
my life did not end at 16, when I committed a crime and shattered the world.
no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I bled, I could not change what I had done.

but it is done.
all of it.
and many, many years later, I think I can finally begin close a chapter of my life.

after all, hope grows in the cracks.

Lie with me.
It's the only way.
Honestly,
What else must be said?

Lie with me.
Stop this torture in my head.
Only me! —
I've said more than I intend.

Lie with me.
Please, I thought you my friend.
You must see,
Just this once, never again.

anois, anois,
it's not that bad

níl sé a lan dona,
ach gearr mé fhein

Exisiting in yet another space between
Two worlds, two lives.
Searching for some new meaning -
Or running from old demons?

Trapped in the divide, between
This and that,
anseo agus ansin.

Torn, tattered, stuck in an lár:
Teanga, life, baile, love.

Falling to pieces

Clawing at - clawing at what’s left,
What is left?

Left is the eight months since you did -
Not that that affects me anymore
(He lies to himself),
It’s just a marker, a buoy -
keeps me on course.

Struggling to see what's right,
What is right?

"If it feels good..."
I am uncertain - but I don't feel peace.  
Conflicted, definitely, and yet I don’t cease

Meddling in things I have no right to meddle in:
lives and loves and people -
Human beings.

Can you not see the damage this will cause?
Not you, but those who you misuse -
You are an evil, twisted little boy

Trapped in this space between
Right and wrong;
My twisted actions and my convicted mind;
Him and me.

why does it feel this way
when I hear the songs you write

and why does it cut me so
to think of a lifetime of lost nights

by your side
by your side
by your side
bye

Where once feelings lay,
Only strange copies remain.
The sense of what should be experienced
Or what is supposed to be felt.

A reflection of the original -
Twisted and distorted -
Not yet beyond recognition,
But increasingly hard to decipher.

Familiarity  - with this place -
Is all that marks its irregularity.
Knowledge that this has been before
Signals it is happening again.

A worrying trend, when abnormality
Becomes the mundane.

let light drive out darkness,
hope supplant fear,
joy overtake despair;

and most of all,
may love and goodness grow,
where forgiveness flows

go maithe dia dom é!
is peacach mé,
agus tá bás uaim.

le do thoil,
sábháil dom uaim féin.

today she is blue
and purple and green
and she wears glitter
beneath her skin

she comes close
only to run away
closer! to run away
again

but i will sit
(as always)
and watch her
dance that dance

(close far close far close far)

and smile
for i’ve yet to see
such beauty matched
anywhere in this world

and for it to come
so close to me

I hunger for change -
for revolution -
for some end to this mundane

life. Seems so common,
so dull and expected and teenage.
I need to taste freedom

from myself, my
peers, my cramped little world.
There are new horizons to be seen,

and new people to meet, and
new memories to be made.
I love what has come before

but I need to believe,
there is more to come.

if I could
peel back the skin
from the top of my head
and crack open my skull
and reach inside,

I would pull out shards of
a woman made of Glass.

if I could
break open the covering
to my deepest fears and
truest hopes,

I fear the fingerprints
I would find lingering
on every part and piece
would erase themselves -
edit and change - cease.

if I could draw
the nameless stars
onto the inside of my eyes

and take your hand
and let your fingertips
trace the outline of my
thoughts;

if I could stab a straw
into the grey matter,
I would ask you drink it,
just so you could taste...

if I could open my veins,
and tie the bloodied strings
to your chest;

if I could hold your hand,
and feel our fingers
tangle and entwine;

if I could crack open my ribcage,
I would let you climb in;

if, if, if...

sweet blossoming joy,
friends who stick around,
friends who have only just begun.

ah life flows
from rocks broken in two ,

water pouring out
of stone,

drenching all around,
with sweet blossoming joy

bhí coinne agam anocht,
chuaigh muid go Lus na Gréine.
bhí sí go hiontach.

labhraimid le chéile,
faoi gach rud agus níos mó.
bhí sí go hiontach.

tá sásta orm.

bruised sky,
heavy clouds,
swollen with summer rain.

carry me,
into the earth,
where there is no more pain.

bláthanna ghorma,
spéir dearg,
anam corcra.

it’s a knife twisting slowly in my gut.
it’s the floor vanishing underneath me.

broken apologies bubble out of my mouth,
passions unfettered and emotions confused.
where sweetness blossomed,
a bitter taste is left.

foot tangled in my own net,
pushing, pulling, struggling -
but only really constricting.

panic swirls in my chest,
a sourness in my throat,
waves crashing around my head.
down, down, deep into the pit,
weighed down by blind stupidity.

just know that as you drew me
(close)
you took a piece of my soul

and as you held me
(close)
I lost my heart in yours

so now we're at our close,
I will never again be quite
whole

Doyouthinkyoucansaveme?Fromwho?Me,you,reality?Doyouthinkyouhavefr­eedme?Towhat?Me,you,reality?Don’tyouseeyou’veenslavedme?Withwhat?­..............?

i’ll admit,
it feels a little like blackmail
when you say the things you say

i know you don’t mean it
but god, it hurts

dust gathers
on the Word that breathed life
into sun
and moon
and stars

where i let dust gather
(on the Word that breathes life)
i let myself become another:

broken, and twisted, and strange.
darkness coursing through my veins,
i slipped into a slumber,

into someone else's arms
and someone else's bed,
i crept - seeking what i once had.

now, as the Son rises in my life,
reclaiming what is his,
slaying the darkness again,

i find myself shocked,
by how much I had let the dust cover.

EVERYWHERE I LOOK, I SEE GHOSTS.

At every tortured bend and darkened hallway, I see you;

And me. And the smiles up against the walls and the laughter jumping through your hair.

I see my insides tied tightly to the spots where we mumbled and fumbled and

took

our

time.

I see shadows of guilt stretched across our history and - like some queer carnival attraction - my Hopelessness cast them.

I feel broken memories catching in my eyes like old, worn hooks.

I taste laughter and love at the back of my throat:

Tickling some hardened part of me :

Making me to and fro’.

And as much as I suffer for the crimes I took joy in,

I know you,

And you suffer for it all the more.

I struggle to breathe when I think about my actions.
I struggle to feel what my heart wants to feel.
I plot my own demise and think how best to word it.
Because sometimes my only gift seems to be my absence.

I give by taking away.
And it cuts me.

They wouldn't really mind - not for long anyway.
It's all just a mist, right? A vapour?
But I've got to get up every morning - regardless of my desires - because I'm still too scared to let go.
And if my gift is Absence, then I pray it happens quickly.

oh to sink into the earth!
sodden and rancid with rain;
sagging under the weight
of too much
after too long. Drowning,
under more of the same

I wouldn't worry too much,
mo chara,
it's not your greatest weakness.

a heady cocktail to consume.

Me from a year ago -
I wouldn't have expected this.
I mean,
you gave me your first kiss.

laethanta sásta,
botharanna salach ‘s
éan orágamaí

Home -
That's where we went on your birthday.
It didn't quite fit though, did it?
Because Home was right in front of me,
and four thousand miles away.

You tried to make it work,
and maybe I had given up,
but now I'm left unfettered,
and floating on til -

Yet home was far away,
and Home had never been closer.

I've been back too long
to miss my home,
but long enough to lose
Home.

Nighttime sounds different here.
The birds sing.
The bugs hum.
From the other side of town comes the beating of some thumping, bumping drum.

Every night feels the same:
Birds sing,
Bugs hum,
From the other side of town comes the beating of some thumping, bumping drum.

At five o'clock the faithful are woken and told to face North, to a city far away.
While for us, we lie prostrate in our beds and turn towards that great black shadow of routine, broken sleep.

hell is not hot enough
nor the abyss deep enough
to hide the ugliness of my sin -

so vast, so cruel, so sinister:
by my hand, I bring torment;
by my words, I scramble to justify:

"I- I am sorry,"
"I wish I hadn't,"
"I never meant this."

If it were true you would have never ******* done it,
yet here we are,
again,
as always,
in wreckage,
you selfish, horrible little boy.

I spend nearly every waking moment
Thinking how you would find that thing funny
Or that thing sweet
Or that thing interesting.

midnight cries for help go unheeded,
***** little secrets remain unchecked.
regret, misery, disgust -
at what i have done
and who i have become
(who have i become?)

soaring peacefully,
far above our heads.

you keen and dive,
move and shake,
you dance.

careful now -
don't let go,
keep the string firm in your grasp

she is strong,
and she pulls hard -
lifting us up from our feet.

o! to be a ribbon,
fluttering in your breeze,
swirling and twirling beneath
your gaze.

o! to feel the tug
of that thin white line,
wrenching us forward,
dragging us on -

tied to the pit of my stomach,
you yank what's left of my insides out

wind whips around the eaves,
whistling by the Velux,
rattling the back gate.

which consequences do I own,
whose hands are inside mine,
what veins belong to me,
and where do they lead?

what if the walls don't hold tonight?
what if they crumble and break?
and I get ****** out -
the contents of my room
shooting through the sky,
burrowing deep into my skin,
piercing the clear, cold night?

_________

It's settling down now,
but you always knew it would.
These things pass, and tomorrow,
you'll collect the detritus scattered on the road.

You sink deep into the pile
of old blankets
and duvet
and wisps of remembrance

You're safe here
at least until tomorrow,
at least until tomorrow,
at least until tomorrow,

"pull me close, i promise i won't bite,"
whispered the razor from the cabinet,
"kiss? little kiss? small kiss for an old friend?
i hear you're into that these days."

"i really shouldn't," i reply, "i made a promise..."
______________

let it out

clean yourself up, scrub all the sin away,
let it drain into the shower basin -
cleaning, removing, making right!

warm and bubbling over, not too hot,
not yet

****.
hair in plug hole.
water isn't draining.

standing in filth. standing in sin.
look! look! you can see it!
it's all soapy and congealing!
rose-tinted bubbles and London grime!
______________

"hey, we've still got that old spark," flashing a grin

"i guess we do," i reply,
the heat already becoming unbearable under my broken skin

it wouldn’t be like me to
be travelling on yet another
train, across yet another
country to visit friends

Like the mist before dawn,
You exist in my memory
As something seen
But never grasped.

is mo croí theanga í,
is an t-anam ó t-am dearmadta
gur ní cuimhnigh mé.

tá sé bhriste 's,
neamhiomlán,
ach is breá liom í fos

mar sin,
is mo bhaile í
agus tiocfaidh an lá
nuair tá mo theanga agam