Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
miceal-kearneyPoems
1 I wasn’t suppose to go this far, my stop was Cavan but I fell asleep now I’m in Belfast. **** next bus tomorrow. Lucky I never leave home without it. A room in the Europa — watching a P.C version of Family Guy for fuck-sake, it’s 2am. Halfway late to the station Clint Eastwood grabs me outside H.M.V tells me: Gran Tournio is out on DVD. As the machine gargles my receipt, the newest member claiming to be the true voice of Northern Ireland’s people spoke at the station. I felt so lucky, because I would, later, find you. 2 It's half past eight. In this housing estate, Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work. God I'm so ****** Spent the night watching 9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy. I sent you a txt at five past one. Wish I could have whispered it into your ear. I know it will be hours before you wake. The thing with having small arms — it drives you to reach the top shelf. The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon composed The Dawn Chorus to signal a day; glorious, still far from over. When I stay over, you’re 9ft away — alone in another room. May as well be a mile past the edge of the universe. You give me your jumper to take to bed, to touch, to smell. And again, as I am leaving home; as now — sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining, but I'm in love with you. 3 Anyone sitting here? 5 minutes ago we were thrusting in the toilets. Our clothes take the stance of opposing forces. Our alibi. Tongues become txts. I always have credit when in character. With you beside me I would **** half the people here, friends and colleagues alike. Beat them to death. Cave in their heads with my fists, stop when punching carpet — just so the remaining half could see how tender I can hold you. Our eyes transfixed, unwilling to focus on anything else — the place could be burning down and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact that I can not read and you can not write. 4 It’s something truly fantastic, secretly held love — pure ****** in ****** veins. We came out in McDonagh’s Fish and Chip shop. Held hands above the table. And lips. Some of the dinners couldn’t care. Others said Uh … and finished off their Haggis. 5 Having spent the past 3 hours in this 1950’s spider-infested green and white Telecom Eireann phone-box, I have concluded that you were a miserable ***** towards the end. The passing headlights, blinkered by the rain decrease the potential of my thumb: I have 2 more hours to wait — giving me time to reflect. Furthermore, if I'd my entire life to live over, despite the 2 restraining orders and my car being crushed into a cube, the only thing I'd change: has not changed since I first told you; then we held each other asleep as one breath. I still cry at night. Nine years I had that car. 6 Back with Bús Éireann trying not to fall asleep. Again.
0
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
Stealing Kisses
1 I wasn’t suppose to go this far, my stop was Cavan but I fell asleep now I’m in Belfast. **** next bus tomorrow. Lucky I never leave home without it. A room in the Europa — watching a P.C version of Family Guy for fuck-sake, it’s 2am. Halfway late to the station Clint Eastwood grabs me outside H.M.V tells me: Gran Tournio is out on DVD. As the machine gargles my receipt, the newest member claiming to be the true voice of Northern Ireland’s people spoke at the station. I felt so lucky, because I would, later, find you. 2 It's half past eight. In this housing estate, Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work. God I'm so ****** Spent the night watching 9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy. I sent you a txt at five past one. Wish I could have whispered it into your ear. I know it will be hours before you wake. The thing with having small arms — it drives you to reach the top shelf. The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon composed The Dawn Chorus to signal a day; glorious, still far from over. When I stay over, you’re 9ft away — alone in another room. May as well be a mile past the edge of the universe. You give me your jumper to take to bed, to touch, to smell. And again, as I am leaving home; as now — sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining, but I'm in love with you. 3 Anyone sitting here? 5 minutes ago we were thrusting in the toilets. Our clothes take the stance of opposing forces. Our alibi. Tongues become txts. I always have credit when in character. With you beside me I would **** half the people here, friends and colleagues alike. Beat them to death. Cave in their heads with my fists, stop when punching carpet — just so the remaining half could see how tender I can hold you. Our eyes transfixed, unwilling to focus on anything else — the place could be burning down and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact that I can not read and you can not write. 4 It’s something truly fantastic, secretly held love — pure ****** in ****** veins. We came out in McDonagh’s Fish and Chip shop. Held hands above the table. And lips. Some of the dinners couldn’t care. Others said Uh … and finished off their Haggis. 5 Having spent the past 3 hours in this 1950’s spider-infested green and white Telecom Eireann phone-box, I have concluded that you were a miserable ***** towards the end. The passing headlights, blinkered by the rain decrease the potential of my thumb: I have 2 more hours to wait — giving me time to reflect. Furthermore, if I'd my entire life to live over, despite the 2 restraining orders and my car being crushed into a cube, the only thing I'd change: has not changed since I first told you; then we held each other asleep as one breath. I still cry at night. Nine years I had that car. 6 Back with Bús Éireann trying not to fall asleep. Again.
Written by
miceal-kearney
Irish
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem