My mother died a month ago
On a Sunday, well it was Monday
But she was dying on a Sunday
No matter the day I will always remember how she left
me
All alone in this dark cold world..

I am alone here with no one and nothing that will care
for me...

He stayed with me on nights when I was lonely.
He came the day mom died to hold me
He was here  but he wanted to be there, with his one and only
It made me sad to see that he didn't want to be with me
and even sadder to know that I was still all alone

If my mom was here she'd tell me to stop being so lonely
Brush off my dancing shoes grab a friend and go somewhere new
somewhere far away from you.
She'd say "my dear you are never alone, I will always be with you.."
My mother wouldn't want me to be sad
My mother wouldn't want me to be mad
She'd tell me to try and keep a smile on my face and remember to pray for better days.

Sunday morning
Let the Hallelujahs
Come
And let my
Grandma
Tell me
Im a sinner
And im lost
As if
I
Dont
Already
Know

On this rainy sunday night,
I am thinking about you,
My tears fall,
Down my cheeks.

It's a rainy sunday night,
And I am trapped here in my room,
Looking at the dark crying sky,
I am missing you ♥

My frail mind
             Keeps me awake this night
Unlike others
                        You fill my head to the brim
        With
Pale moonlight             and
                    A sip of wine cleanses
          My eagerness to see you
   My                       sense of direction clouded
                But my imagination
Only
                        Surrounds these thoughts
              At 5 am on a warm sunday morning
        Because
I                miss               you             so

Another Sunday, time to recover
From all the drugs, my only lover
Take my B vitamins to start the circulation
With some fish oils to reduce inflammation
Most importantly, are my amino acids
Because of that I've been flushed
So now I replenish these masses
The benzos are the only drugs that get touched
So addicted to them, so I know it's a must
If a doctor read this, he'd understand my logic
But if a doctor read this, he'd command me to stop it
As I continue my day with my normal acting mind
I realize I'm a slave to drugs, all the time
But I'm financially flourished
The whole family I nourish

And after reading these poems, I feel some people get jealous
Who would follow me? They know my soul I had sold it
I always follow back, I'm not a bad guy
Now sit on top of that, I'm not living a lie
I could really care less about it
It's just an alias, and a therapeutic outlet
Just another Sunday
Glad you read about it

I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth -  Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in ***, gin and ugh…pheromones.

“fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?”

“fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.”

“fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” I cry,

We see his previously shock beet red face light up.

“Wit MEN fadder wit men.  Not little boys”

Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and *** and ****** and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever.

“fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.”

“fadder I was in a ****” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church *****. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, ****** drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber.

“fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.”

Rolling around on the confession booth floor now,

“fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to **** myself”

Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut.

“fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing”

By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe.

“So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other ******* week some ******’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie ****?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over.

The priest is mute silent on the subject at first, finally looking up from a leather bound book, he starts to speak in careful, measured words unfamiliar to the impatience of our generation.

“My son, I’ve never ****** any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.”

This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews.  A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. (Say it like a valley girl honey.)

Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.”

Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.”

“Generationally? Is that even a word?!”

“Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me

“Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a *** and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.”

The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The ****** of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.”

Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates  and being alone and not changing.”

After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot.

“Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink ******’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on

“STOP! You had me at BED” Sil yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into my front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times.

“I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.

His voice,
Was like a relaxing Sunday morning.
And just like the day,
I couldn't have it on replay.

If today was for giant caterpillars,
giant crowds,
giant sounds,
and chaos, then this evening must be for

Blueberry fingertips
white wine in my glass
the music of an accordion
and a paperback novel.

Breeze in the window that waltzes with ribbons
and fills the bottles I’ve collected for the past six years.

(soft t shirt from the first time I fell asleep on his couch)

mmm, stop WORRYING.
It is no time at all for any of that.
Take the time to take the time to take your time.
shhh, brain.
hush, mouth.
Quiet Quiet Quiet

Monday,
The first time of the week,
Where I start to feel weak,
People pass by,
Without looking at me in the eye,

Tuesday,
I feel better now,
I wish I knew how,
So I could do it once more,
When I start to feel like a bore,

Wenesday,
The pain is back,
I would’ve stayed in bed this morning,
Today I lack,
Of the thirst to be learning,

Thursday,
I’m almost done with this series of seven days,
But everything in my mind is like a maze,
I can’t find the end of it,
Just like I can’t seem to fit,

Friday,
I’m almost out of school,
I’ll get rid of these fools,
I’ll feel better once I’m home,
I won’t be in the corridors I usually roam,

Saturday,
I forgot about my problems at home,
I forgot my dad likes to hit my mom when she’s alone,
I feel my world tumbling down,
With nobody to help me around,

Sunday,
Soon I’ll be back to school,
Surrounded by the same fools,
I don’t have any control,
Of my heart or my soul

Yesterday,
I felt like my troubles were so far away,
Like I had a chance at feeling better for a day,
My past keeps haunting me,
It probably will be like this for an eternity,

Today,
I can’t seem to enjoy anything,
It’s really annoying,
I wish I could just smile,
For a while,

Tomorrow,
I’ll continue to procrastinate,
And hope for something better,
And hate my fate,
When it’ll think “whatever”,

My days seem to pass me by,
And I’m a day closer,
To the day I die.