I was just
winding her up
when I told her that sometimes
she was maternal with me.

Just a wind-up,
but I was ******* her breast,
I guess.

Anyway, she jolts up
and leaves me lying there
with my wet mouth open,
the bed splashed with
the tumbled contents of the ash tray,
and I could sense a ******
confrontation heating up.

I prepared the extinguisher.

"Don't ******* say that,
I can't ******* stand that"

She scathed my like a child,
and I realised I had awoken a dragon.

I sprayed the scene
with exaggerated attempts
to reduce it's meaning.
Palms up, face loose,
a goofy ******* laugh.
She was having none of it
and left me to think about
what I had said.

I should have been
sat on the stairs.

But she was a mother once.
Well, nearly.
Her instincts had been all
fired up only for an operation
to take away the need.
She felt that loss,
the mother that never was.

And now she had to put up with me.

I'm a stand-up citizen,
I'm a thief.

I'm a leader,
I'm a coward.

I'm a friend,
I'm a murderer.

Stood in the dock,
I deserve redemption.

I ought to be ******.

I am my own split jury.

I have seen the great pyro minds
manically set themselves alight,
a nightly burn that glows with
shotgun epiphanies,
masturbatory madness
and affectionate fights.
Exhaustion eventually extinguishes
and they awake as ashes
in the introspective sunlight.

A daily process of life and death,
a cerebral freeze and thaw
that cracks the skull
and punctuates all the *******
that comes with being alive.

"Seriously man,
green cat eyes.
I kept losing myself
in them.
I don't know."

But what is it.

"Like when they look,
they really look.
You get me?
Think a sun's ray
in a dusty room,
like that,
but green."

There's more.
How can I put it.

"And her nose,
man it's the smallest
cutest nose I've ever seen.
And you don't doubt it,
because she's probably
never even lied.
How could she?
What with those green eyes."

Beauty is truth etc. Well it's not.
And this pub ain't no place
for pottery.

"And her hair man, her hair.
It's so curly, all tangled up
and wild. But my fingers
run through smooth.
And she purrs man."

I want to rub her belly.

"Ahhhh I just..
I just.. I don't know really.
I just can't get away from
those green eyes."

Such empty words.
Just the skeletal sounds.
I'm missing that sun and moon
and bluest blue. But I think he understands.
We all do when someone is really trying
but just can't,
when expression moves inward.

"I don't know man."

One white page.
One black dot.
One white page
with one black dot.
That is all.
You see it.
Good.
Now wiggle that dot.
Just a tad.
Watch it shake.
A single vibrating cell.
A fly in the wind.
Trembling up. And down.
And down and up and right and left.
It's a ***** smudge
ruining your clean page.
So rub it out .
With your pencil thin rubber.
But it dodges like a boxer's head.
A darting fish.
You want to get rid of it.
You want a clean white page.
Plant your rubber down.
A dramatic staff in the ground
cracks the white soil.
But it circles you.
That fly, that fish,
that blurred boxer.
That singular cell.
It circles your staff.
Your statement.
Magnetically.
A metal ball.
Orbiting your invisible eraser.
To erase the invisible dot.
But it is there.
Circling faster.
Wider.
Angrier.
Leaving a trail behind.
Too fast for the eye.
The sultry smoke of speed.
The slipstream of a cannonball.
The page is warped.
Earthquake epicentre on the A4.
Shook by the fault lines.
Jutting canyons drop down.
Ledges crumble and crash.
Sugared pie crust
hit with a hammer.
Everything collapses.
Invisible things are also under
the spell spell of gravity.
Hit on the head by invisible apples.
But it's not invisible.
It's not a cell.
A fly or smudge.
An agile boxing fish head.
A cannonballing canyon pie.
It's not even a white page.
Nevermind the black dot.
It's nothing.
Not a thing.
Not invisible,
but  the kind of nothing
that can't be seen.
Yet there it is.

On the road just passed Ballinasloe,
with tyres hugging tight
to tarmac's staccato white stripes,
the stone walls of Aran seem so long ago.

Bu that is only the distance,
And she is more than the proof.

The island's sun has tinted her face,
Its sand has clung tight to salted skin,
The cliffs have sped the pace of her chest,
And now it's the Atlantic that floats within.

In the way your flesh seems softer
and your bones more brittle,
when surrounded by the hard steel
of great grunting machinery.

In the way your youth seems younger,
your canvas nearly blank,
when foreheads lines like staves
sing to you the elegy of life.