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Dec 2011 · 695
A Drunk man in Derry
Luke OReilly Dec 2011
And as the large man turned
the corner
tilted
lolled and
then capsized,
bobbing around Foyle street
As a turtle on its back
I wondered how his family felt
And how bad
he must have smelt.
Dec 2011 · 654
Without lex.
Luke OReilly Dec 2011
Rhebus.
Havnt a baldies what the word means
On account of me not having a dictionary
to hand.
Tis nice though,
to say.
I urge you to play.
Say them out loud.
Bungalow
Clot
Curley wurley
Menagerie
Bulbous.
It's words that define us.
Apr 2011 · 1.3k
Elixir
Luke OReilly Apr 2011
Stomach ulcers wait for me
acid reflux looms
Bloated Belly
Backend bother
Doctors waiting rooms.

And still I wolf down whiskey
and guzzle gassy stout
and wake at dawn
a can in hand
in the middle of a roundabout.

For whats the point of living
if living is a chore
some love life without drinking
I find I enjoy it more.
Apr 2011 · 729
Advertisent
Luke OReilly Apr 2011
Budding writer in need of
a muse.
One whos views
will fuse together
disjointed observations,
through musical maschinations
into flowing verse.
Shapely and round
if you please
And not averse
to ******,
borderline
perverse.
Apr 2011 · 722
Mark it
Luke OReilly Apr 2011
She held a bullhorn
To his ear
And being deaf
He could not hear.

And she decried
All of his wrongs
which to his ears
were lovers songs.

She cursed him
For his tardiness
To him, his head
she seemed to bless.

She cried he was a
lazy dog.
To him, she prayed
as though to God.
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
Globed
Perfectly round
Apart from a **** on top from
when it was part of a tree.



Ten year old me
Dunks flesh into flesh.
Sugary smells
as fruity balloons burst within,
Spraying juice in all directions.

I separate the segments,
No call to look at what I'm doing
Pulling at the thin membrane
gluing crescent to crescent.

And he looks at me
Cranes the neck he doesn't have
In a questionmark shape.

Little me starts back
in wonder.
A White and wriggling worm
Has won his plunder.
Mar 2011 · 2.0k
A Clown called Bob
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
Through towns and through cities
he roams with his crew
At one time or another
they were likely near you

White face and red nose and
green hair and wide eyes
the clown they call Bob
and his three loyal guys.

His brutal lieutenant
Contortionist Clive
Just a baby in a basket
and barely alive

Taken in by a couple
two elderly folk
She smelled sweetly of marzipan
He of pipe smoke

They cleaned him and fed him
like he was their own
they schooled him and loved him
and gave him a home

And fed well by their kindness
Clive grew tall and grew strong
but on his seventeenth birthday
things went horribly wrong

You see Clive became spoilt
and expected a gift
of a trip to the circus
it was this caused the rift

for his mother believed
that the circus was cruel
and he would not be going
it was her only rule

Clives face grew all twisted
his eyes shone in the light
of the candles lit specially
to mark this dark night.

When the neighbours were asked
by police what they'd heard,
though many were too scared
to utter a word,

A picture emerged of the
untimely demise
of a Mr and Mrs with
old kindly eyes.

A Rumble
A Tumble
A Stumble
A Fall....

A Crashing
A Smashing
and Dashing
down halls....

A scream that turned into
a horrible cackle
a smell of smoke, orange glow from the window,
crackle.

In the cold light of day
there was no sign of clive
though firemen struggled
to believe him alive

For the windows and doors
had all been locked tight
on the night Clive went mad
burned his house, and took flight.

I've developed a theory
of just what went on
given the profession
into which he would spawn.

You see one window WAS open
the one in the loo
though too small for a man
big as Clive to fit through.

But we know Clive is
somewhat of a twister
a slippery sleeked
and devious mister

and feeling the heat
of the flames on his rear
he achieved the impossible
and squeezed himself clear.

And somewhere down the line
Clive met a clown, name of BOB.
More of him later
For now, back to his mob.

The next of the gang,
this stays between me and you,
is a curious chap
who they call Mr. Glue,

At seven feet tall
and massively thin,
since birth Mr. Glue
could stick things to his skin.

As one might expect
this caused him some issues
when eating a biscuit
or passing some tissues

or using a toothbrush
or driving his van,
and all this made Glue
quite a miserable man.

So one day he started
inventing a suit
to cover his body
glue head to glue foot

with holes made for each
of his glue fingertips
for these were the parts
that helped him to grip

onto walls and to ceilings
and drainpipes and sills
for climbing on rooftops
and acrobat skills

so he wasn't so miserable
all of the time
he was happiest most
on a difficult climb.

He climbed mountains and towers
and buildings and people
he perched on the point
of the worlds tallest steeple

and spending hours and hours
perched high above town
he began to dislike
the thought of coming down.

So he stuck a large tent to the small of his back
and climbed a tall building and didn't look back
and knew in his head he would never be back
with the people who lived down below.

and one tent soon grew into three and then four
and one level grew into five and then more
and soon Mr. Glue was in need of more floor
for his tent house on top of a building.

And he looked to the building across from his home
and had an idea, that with wood and with foam
and with glue from his hands he could easily roam
quite safely, between the two towers.

As this castle emerged high up in the sky
the people below couldn't understand why
and their fear and confusion turned into a cry
that sent chills to the heart of tent kingdom

And Glue could but watch as they gathered below
and the flames of their torches burned bright through the snow
and as ladders emerged, though so very slow,
the people were coming to see him.

Mr Glue cried out, and begged them to stop
No use, they said, we're coming up to the top
and there in the crowd, Mr Glue saw his Pop
and the good Mr. Glue's heart was blackened.

What happened next
I saw for myself
from my car parked
down in the street.

And the crowd
in a panic
ran wildly around
as tents fell and crashed at their feet.

Mr glue was destroying
his heavenly home
piece by piece
tossed it into the depths

by the moon silhouetted
he raised his arms high
and in the snow,
Mr Glue wept.

And then the enormous seven foot frame
took several steps back, crouched down and took aim
and building by building, his heart full of pain
he disappeared into the darkness.

and wandering countryside, village and town
Mr Glue could find nothing to upend his frown
then one summers day, he bumped into a clown
and Mr. Glues life changed forever.

To be continued.....
Mar 2011 · 741
Jazz it
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
Reprise a prism
philanderize a cat
negate negotiations with a baseball bat
chew on orange pulp
eek a wage
live young and simple in the face of age.
Mar 2011 · 644
Rolly
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
The plume
of smoke
that fills
the room
coils
from your
burning end.
You beauteous
cancerous
tube of joy
You pricey
spicy friend.
Mar 2011 · 2.2k
Game
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
They kicked a man to death
Hard head turned pulpy by plimsole heels.
Walked home
watched tv with their parents.
Went to bed and dreamt of Disneyland.
Mar 2011 · 654
What I are
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
I can feel the sinews
of my arm. What would,
if eaten, be considered
gristle.
I like to imagine
my liver.
Large ****** bulk.

I often forget
I am made of parts.
Gooey mechanisms
slick sections
upon dissection
hunks of tissue.

I find solace
in the realisation
that I
and you
and We
are meat.

Envy the dogs.

Avarice and hate
and excess fear
are symptoms of
an enlarged brain.

Envy the dogs.
Mar 2011 · 759
Flick
Luke OReilly Mar 2011
The tube, the box, the artificial world
sat squarely in the corner of the room
where once a conversation had unfurled
now stagnant silence peering from the gloom
in want of fun, folly, artificial joy,
no thoughts created, only thought consumed,
where once the pen was our most cherished toy,
now stands the box in which we are entombed.
George believed control through that which we hate
Aldous through bombardment with things we love,
The threat of this electric ******
I fear much more than Orwells famed Big Bruv.
So turn it off, take down a book and find
the thaw to melt the snows that freeze the mind.

— The End —