Intense
Existence
Always
Ignores
All
Ignorant
Oracles

the hens
have raised their fowl fists,
protested the pecking order,
debated the Cuckoo Clucks Clan,
and started a coup in the coop.
they have a bird's eye view from their fort,
truly an eggcelent perch to reside in while they gather resources and
duck when enemies fire.
joining is a nestcessary evil to end the corruption.
so, my dear,
please don't chicken out.

The lady that used to wait aside the wings
and sing to all
to let us know the show was done
has gone.

Moved to a farm in Saskatchewan
where as a second wife to Edward Stone
she inherited another life
another home
and she's much slimmer now
you wouldn't recognise the girl who used to sing
and bring the curtain down.

Three pigs,two cows,some hens and sows
and she just loves it so.
She wonders why she didn't go much sooner
why she was slow
and time was quick to take advantage of her looks.

She cleans and cooks but does not sing
for fortune has it that
might bring bad luck.

And clucks,how
she clucks among the hens
throws the corn collects the eggs
pecked once or twice upon her legs
all part of her new day.
She's glad,
she wouldn't have it any other way.
And Edward's such a lovely man
five foot eight
broad shoulders
and he usually sports a tan.
In Saskatchewan
the lady never sings.

Soft light and fresh sense,
cooling air descends.
Lungs expand more gently at ease,
apprehension slides with death.
Breathe in to converse with greenery
as the day now dips and sets.
Though the clucks and clicks continue on,
colours no longer reflect to bounce
the burning image of a molten head.
Nevertheless we're not done yet,
tomorrow's bound to come along
with new problems until we're laid to rest.

In its immensurate clarity,* In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.

Concussed, winded: I  should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.

Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:

Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.

But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.

It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.

There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just *eke.

When I push the pedal to the metal theres no limit I **** space...
my movement never constant just can't stay in one place...
So I zoom zoom through the poom poom...
leaving ****** scenes in bedrooms..
given girlies the boom boom...
Explode...As i unload...
round after round clip after clip...
as their bodies shake and twitch lick after lick...
Sounds of *** remind me I'm some ****...
And why the **** Im i even sittin here doin this...
With no remorse in my eyes..
I **** em until they die...
pound after pound
clap sound after clap sound...
pelivis agianst *****
we know which is the meanest..
Wit no protection Im at war..
with criminals who only *****...
Thier war crimes they get paid for...
then the death toll I get blaimed for..
As i leave them slayin to rest...
Some label me the best...
others just another *** that clucks at all the hens..
Can't read my metaphors that means ***** alot of women...
The reaction is i get a lot of practice so i can be to half bad..
So dont sign up for tryouts get cut then get mad...
because you haven't had the amout of practice i had..
See I know all types of tricks..
lights skin, brown skin, dark skin, i got a whole lot of picks.
The ins and the outs..
when to drive in and when to pull out...
Squirting your insides against my stomach...
you panic..
instantly proclaiming to your maker...
that Iam your ******....
the one who drove to fast that your waves decided to crash...
all over me..milking your sweet nector...
as you lay life lessly twitching..the side effects of a killing..
so i place the pedal to the metal i tend to burn rubber...
one hand around the neck of the wheel and the other around my lovers...

The rain was coming down so hard
it drenched me to the bone
I saw a wooden structure
in the distance all alone
I made my way unto the door
and shouted loud and clear
Old Noah popped his head out
and said 'son get out of here!'

The door slammed shut abruptly
and I stood there like a fool
This wasn't like old Noah
to be acting so uncool
I pressed my ear up to the door
and thought I heard a goat
Then all at once I realized
this structure was a boat

A boat indeed filled to the top
with horses, sheep, and fowl
And every other kind of beast
that clucks or brays or howls
I knocked again and shouted
to be heard above the din
'It's raining pretty hard out here
come on and let me in!'

Old Noah shouted through the door
'I'm sorry but I can't
I'd welcome you most gladly
if you were a duck or ant'
'A duck? You must be joking
now come on and let me in
The water's rising very fast
it's nearly to my chin'.

I’m sorry I don’t make the rules
and I don't mean to be rude
But I’ve got a lot of work to do
so friend I guess you’re *******”
‘In the name of God I’m begging you’
I pleaded and I cried
I’m going to die right here and now
if you don’t let me inside!’

The door flew open suddenly
and Noah gave a frown
‘Well get your *** inside the ark
before you go and drown!’
Most happily I came inside
but Noah looked quite ******
'We're going to be in trouble boy
when God gets wind of this!'

'But I'm sure that God all mighty
would not be so unkind
You showed me love and mercy
when you rescued my behind'
Old Noah clenched an angry jaw
and furled a mighty brow
'I don't think that you understand
the situation now

God was most specific
on who could take this ride
If he knew I let you in here
he would have my ancient hide'
Then all at once the heavens cleared
and the water ceased to fall
the birds were singing happily
and the sun was standing tall

Noah stood in disbelief
confusion on his brow
He shouted out unto the sky
'What do I do now?!?'
He stood for several minutes
as if waiting for a sign
Then grabbed a piece of parchment
and began a simple line

'For forty days and forty nights
the wind is going to blow
and the rain will fall in buckets
unto the earth below
And evil then will parish
leaving Noah and his crew
and about a million animals
to begin the world anew'

'Hold on there!' I scrutinized
'You're story is absurd'
But Noah kept on scribbling
as if he hadn't heard.
'There was no flood'
I pointed out
'So why tell folks this lie?'
Old Noah put his pen down
and he gave a weary sigh

'A couple thousand years from now
when people reads these lines
They're going to think me quite a guy
for saving all mankind
In fact I think I much prefer
this version of events
At least my future progeny
won't think that I was bent'

I must admit his logic
made a lot of sense to me
The man had built a massive boat
ten miles from the sea
His character could not withstand
a thousand years of shame
And if I were in Noah's shoes
I might just do the same

he told me the secret to life
was faking it
he said that no one will be able to see the cracks in your skin beneath
the makeup i'll put on you
look in the mirror, he said
your reflection is flawless
and that girl is absolutely
100%
you
no scratches were visible
from the night i tried to claw my eyes out
he trimmed my nails short and said
they looked prettier that way
my formerly bloodshot eyes
and ratchet hair
had been replaced with contacts
the mane, tamed down into a tight little bun
i wasn't a girl who hated herself
i wasn't the girl who tried to hang herself
i was the girl who loved herself and thought life was just grand
i was the girl who was afraid of death
the screaming voices in my head were replaced
with condescending mama hen clucks
he spun me around once more and said
darling
look at your beautiful face
look at
you
yeah
look at me

look at me, i was about to write something about my absentee patriotism, how i feel no affiliation to anything sold on the market stall of the flag and st. george’s mascot, i was given the shortest anthem to sing to ease the pressure, but i didn’t sing it, because i felt myself inclining via aesthetics towards the japanese one: ** chi ha chihuahua.*

that’s what happens to former nations that aspire to empire building,
the lingua franca dubius is english for good reason,
we’re looking at uniting europe, rebuilding it,
giving it stability for the japan v. south africa odds of 1000 - 1,
thousand years that is. we need a non-vehicular language,
we need a language of stoppages, clogged up toilets
with polish foot soldiers aiming their bayonet plungers at ****...
we need frequent stoppages for the accessible 24h news reel
telling us something new... like: sun just chuckled in clucks.
now the randomisation... it’s going to be horrid...
i walk the streets for a whiskey after a rugby match that ended
in violins and piano dirges,
by a chain shop i spot a group of children no older than 15,
girls in underwear and boys in hoods - started pimping early
for the muslim boys... or... a football fan thought rugby
was worth the telly and beer to get angry while loosing his national pride,
started making chandelier sparkles with his wife’s face
so his sons and daughters ran out, within the motto:
boys to the alleys girls to the perverts’ bedroom! go!
that was my first impression... secondly i like to forward the following
assumption - interaction of the northern men with the biblical
nations will not end well when the interaction happens
with one of the northern nations being crusaded on by the teutons...
but islamists terrorists i.s.i.l..... for god’s sake call bin laden by
his first name... well that interaction, it will never fair well...
as i tell you i tell you: three tiers of a brain haemorrhage...
the inherited type, the chemically forced type... of ****.... that’s two...
*** and ****** too...
the chemically induced one doesn't affect
one as much as a chemically forced one (it's not the entire d.n.a.
of anticipation when the amazonian one comes disguised
as a hallucinatory hope)  -
continue the plough, continue the harvester!
well the other side is said like this:
what’s the difference between a just man and a self-righteous man?
the self-righteous man takes the money after the damage was done,
the self-righteous man takes the money and limps,
no matter what money could have been given me i liked my brain just fine...
so now the just man, and justice serves a hollowed bell with the just man’s
arm as the bell’s uvula, ding ****!
coming from a man who’s culprit invited him to the mosque in regent’s park
and he gladly accepted aladdin’s challenge on the magic carpet of learning,
the same hurt party that played daddy-long-legs happy birthday
on the guitar with “gravel” at a house party for the unloved,
taking his mother like a lisp in whisper to the likeable respect -
yes, the just man will never become self-righteous...
and guess who gave him money? or the duracell battery for the brain
for compensation? god.
the man took it and now his actions look abiding with fake nostalgia
or like the drunkard with memory gaps, him with gaps of imagination
and fake nostalgia.
but more about nation rebuilding after empire building -
make sure the police force takes the oath of diogenes like
in maxim - ‘find me an honest man who knows his address and phonenumber
and we’ll have no trouble!’ that’s not really hipocrates, but it helps.
secondly or thirdly utmost? i forgot but with the next few words will
remember, ah yes, the p.s.:
socrates asked too many question and with that was the mechanic behind
ambiguity of meaning, words lost their original meaning
because they became so corrupted with application,
so he came in and was like - huh?
the remnants of the socratic method became archeologically resurrected to the fore
with the existentialists tetravoxancon notation, e.g. “virtue,” “ego,” “hope.”
socrates became too difficult, and for written philosophy without conversation
the narrative had to acquire a quasi-fluidity, or, like
on the german motorway, ausfahrt. hitchhiker inclusion moving forward some would say, freelance forward your own ambiguous narrative with the words provide as “ambiguous.”

You! The center of solar system, main source energy of living and non-living, consumed great heat, considered the brightest of all stars, I summon not you but your power. As the earth rotates and revolves around you, dividing night and day, in the land where your light casts on the east, showing its glory, I implore you - shed not just your light but also your heat. Hearing me pleading you, your eyebrows if you have will surely raise for my sudden approach, as the rooster clucks, in the air so still and wet. But you, from afar we can feel you, even to the moon you have shared yourself, wondering why I called in this time. Though at times I question, your high presence makes trees go dry and land quench for water, but this time, my lips continuously utter, as I work with my clothes in bubbling water, running for the clock, oh great Sun, listen to me. Let no cloud shed a little tear, show who’s the most powerful, our Sun, I invoke you, for no machine can please my clothes, and air cannot do any better. Cooperate with the wind, cast the clouds that hinders you, reveal your shining glory, and may my clothes experience your majesty.

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

She noted, grimly cognizant of though unamused by the irony,
That her likeness, or something akin to that,
Appeared on the poster—a gray-clad strong and vibrant woman
Reaching, in concert with her comrades
(One woman in a white coat, a man in overalls and requisite cap,
Still another androgynous figure in a futuristic ensemble
Resembling some cross of a Western science fiction movie
And some cheap Petrograd-made tin foil)
Toward a hammer-and-sickle adorned moon
Soon to be conquered by a similarly festooned rocket ship.
She is no scientific apparatchik, no technically gifted party functionary;
It is her job to feed the canine occupant of this mission to the cosmos
(Two mutts from the Moscow streets, she confides to Ilysa,
One of the few co-workers who can be trusted with such a statement.)
The dog, she notes without any trace of rancor, eats quite well,
Better than she does in truth,
But it is a series of last meals for the condemned,
For there is no secret as to the dog’s eventual fate
(Poor cur, he has no idea he is doomed,
One of the scientists clucks sadly,
Though she simply shrugs in reply,
Knowing a test or a trap when she sees it,
Though she thinks to herself He is far from alone)
And, after she has cleaned up the remnants of the dog’s dinner,
She heads back to her one-room flat on the Yaseneavaya Boulevard,
Noting ruefully, as she ascends the crumbling, unsteady steps
Leading to her blocky, faceless building,
That the omnipresent klieg lighting of the street lamps
Serves to obscure any trace of the heavens in the night sky.

Now it's time to crucify the *******
Burn em with fire throw em in ditches
Like the district attorneys
Tryna play me but didn't know I was boss
Took a lot hard hits but no yards lost
Gaining multiple positions we go for everything
Didn't have a team so I built my own dream
Get rid of my old crew and hang with a new crew I'm a black Jew
Stuck in the wild a real problem child
Ain't my fault nigguh ?
Born in ******* now I'm tryna fight
Back nigguh
Real friends turn to bustas so jealousy keeps me strapped
Shootin' game like life's full of craps
Testin lucks enticin' clucks to my duck
Cuz I got that mad flow cash flow
Never failed had no choice but to shed hell
Livin' in a jail cell
Kin to the reaper this **** creaper
As I stroll in my drop top hot as a *******
Rushin' the late night hour like I'm Chris Tucker
The stash is gold bold weak nigguh fold
And ***** ******* to haters get the black glock
Since my homies roll deep us might as well say we a flock none could block the hustle
Go for the biggest muscle
The Cia the biggest distributors
Uh the Devils gotta receipt repent from my sins
If I die from open fire will the Heavens let me in?
The pain I can't fade Tha
The stress put on this earth as a test
Slicin' necks with my rusty razor
Givin a rapid taste of a true hellrazorrr!

it seems Prez Grinch, has a job to commit
it's that time of year, we have to admit
turkey pardoning is indeed a big thing
Prez Grinch just loves it as he thinks he's a king
the turkey is chosen and brought to the garden
it struts and it clucks and Prez says ”Your Pardoned”...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 322

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              Grandpa and the Kid

Grandpa gives his boy a toy truck
Or better yet a clanking army tank
Or maybe a plastic shovel and pail
Or a real Roy Rogers cowboy hat

And the little boy’s hovering mother clucks:
“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me!
Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!”
No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!”

[Extended Form for Certain Feasts and Seasons:

“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” Amen.]

And Grandpa smiles and lights his favorite pipe
(His daughter rolls her disapproving eyes)
She sees tonight’s bath in the sand and grass
But Grandpa sees beyond this time and place

His boy builds a road, a fort, a castle, a corral
And Grandpa thanks God for his little pal

I shred the beets.
Heads of red flicks in the bowl
parged of white now rosé, blushes.
To say the word properly is to nestle the
tongue in the church of the mouth the nave
of clucks tucked under the roof of the palate to
squeeze conjoined shushes and birch noises.
To steam to steep
with the lazy roil of the soup.
Do you recall the crunch of the snow outside our dacha?
The days where ice coated crusts cut
galoshes
sloshed.
The tureen beckons with its fractures.
To predict the future merely gaze into the soup.
How is this to see
a winter of bread and shavings
of fibers sewn rough
of tough, tough coughs that spray rose
petals in the dawn?

Brought up on Ikea,MacDonalds and see how you look,
I see the round seeded buns of fat burger bums and the falling apart of furniture that you couldn't start,with instructions you can't read,go feed your face in that god awful place and get out of mine.
There was a time when mums cooking was best.(lest we forget)
as yet another chicken clucks and who gives a hoot or one flying,flux,it's all in the flux,we always knew that.
This will be our ruination,the fatification (i make words up) of...oh what the hell,let's station ourself by the doors,eat chickens like foxes on tables from boxes and go with the flow.

Is this where it ends?
The pouring of words,
The same as the rain against the window.
Moisture to the grass.
Safely unlatching the gate,
The horses huff in the darkness.
The sky so bare,
But it reminds me of someone else;
Beneath his chin, beneath our dreams.
Is this where we have come?
To my insincerities,
To my lies, disguised as truths.
Half-truths, we will say.
Your arms an honour:
Your doors are opening,
Finally,
But I am locked behind my own.
Is this where the road ends?
Cooped up for too long,
The light has escaped our space;
Casting shade in your eyes
And doubt on me.
With the road that lay ahead, breaking slowly,
Crumbling in slow motion:
So loudly, so harshly.
Is this where we end?
Individual thoughts on the unknown:
Opinions and perspective
The world went upside down when you spoke,
Tossing me off my feet,
The red of my hair the last thing I recall.
An inner voice spoke then:
The clucks and the chatters faded.
Until it all became void.
But this is not the first time,
This will not be the last.
Although, it is the end:
To the vanilla latte air,
To the inconvenience.
The pins on the map are all mine now,
The administration is yours.
I have no more debt,
And the circles never combined anyway.
The sun sets while we look away,
As always,
And then we drift off:
Into the abyss, into our own worlds,
Into individuality.
Until we find our voices,
And start again.

Oh holy god,
this one clucks.
Let me stop telling jokes and just keep my mouth shut.

Oh no, oh ****.
This one's a total *****.
Mental note to leave the waiter one hell of a tip.

I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I'm so over it.

Oh great,
this one's obsessed with pop culture,
and this one's some sort of rotten carcass eating vulture.
I don't want to hear about your low-life ex-boyfriend.
I'll eat my food as fast as I can.

I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I count down the seconds until they end.

Are you freaking kidding me wearing that skirt?
No, that's okay, we'll skip on dessert.
Did he really just ask for your number?
Go ahead and give it to him.

Oh good god,
this girl is so dim.
What's that you say?
I wasn't listening . . .

I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I think I ought to just give it up.
Finally accept my fate:
No one but you will ever be good enough.

yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*

when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?

i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered...  defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
             we blink thrice and think we spotted
             a thing only once, when in fact thrice.

because I can cool his head with mine.  

-

he clucks, I cluck.  we are deep into our clucking.

-

from space.  the same way it comes to animals.

-

that other thing is between you and god.

-

item:  a nicotine patch, from father’s arm, in the event you find yourself playing with dolls.

-

item:  we don’t have that kind of time.

-

object sadness, not yet coined, is a peephole I can’t put my finger on.

-

colloquialism is more than extra love for the hatchet.

-

there’s nothing left to swallow the tip of his tongue.

i am quite used to strutting and
spreading my tail feathers as wide as my *** allows
calling whistling
walking the fence row  and the coops doorway
displaying all I got like a peacock
on thanksgiving  giving all the hen turkeys hell
saying in clucks what up beeitch!
I am not used to , however
that  god ****** hawk hovering over
circling
knowing I am a failure

words trip, stream, flood off the tongue
a wiggling in the ear, drums
clicks clucks stops starts, clashing symbols
do you feel my language?

I am not all the things my words make me out to be.
While my tongue clucks of bravado and strength
my eyes search for the easy way out.
I tell tall tales of how I've gotten by
by the skin of my teeth
by my own daring and will
but the enamel is worn thin
from the nights I spend chewing over
the moments I wasn't ready for.
Every day the sun passes over me
is another day spent passing idle conversaton
of what I will do one day, only if, never when.
If I speak to those who construct their sentences
with actionable words
with authority
with that self-assuredness
that theirs is the correct path,
I find myself wondering when the day will come
that my own words
will shape the person I say I am.
When will I be the person I say I will be?
Not until
I write my own story,
instead of listening to those of others
while wishing I had
a story to tell.

He floats there near the bottom,
Dragged and anchored like a ship
To seabed by rusted fetters,
Down where ***** shuffle a slow
Ribbon dance, twirling black seaweeds
And long grasses,
Where they snap out a rhythm
In solemn beatnik fashion to mournful
Whale songs like low saxophone moans,
And where the disapproving clucks
Of dolphins’ tongues echo
In quiet communal protest.

His body floats bloated in brine,
Cheeks puffed like wet bread,
Skin grey and shadowed blueblack,
His face slack,
Broad chest beaconed out of dark waters
By dim pleated streams
Of ocean light.

Obama makes a speech and earns
Four hundred thousand bucks.
Of course he is entitled but
The whole world sighs and clucks.

I frankly don’t think anyone
Deserves that kind of dough
But obviously that’s the rate
For people in the know.

It saddens me a little bit
For such a fee seems greedy,
Especially for someone who
Once championed the needy.

Ideally he should give his talk,
Accepting what they pay,
Then find a worthy charity
And give it all away.

IS TUSA...MO THEACH RÚNDA BEAG
(You Are...My Little Secret House)



my house
a hedge
on my uncle's farm




that only existed
in summer
holiday land




In terms of time
it is the year
called 1963




but that is neither
here nor there
for this is the timeless time




of a small boy who
wishes to be
invisible




found when falling
from a tree
into a fairy tale




hedge of many
years standing
thick and tangled with time




door
?
there is no door




one has
to beat
one's way in




the only door is
pain
and determination




endure the sting
of nettle
the scratch of briar




crying is
the only thing
not allowed




burrs clinging
to curls
and geansaí




transforming you
into a wild
creature




dock leaves stand near by
to take the sting
out of things




the hedge
closing
behind you




but once inside
it blossoms out into
a makeshift  palace




that only
a child could
cherish




a hedgehog
keeps
house




the other
occupants
various creepy crawlies




sunlight now
and then
comes to visit




sometimes
the rain
drops in




gossiping in
drips
and drabs




a roof of bird song
and green
sunlight




a wall of pig squeals
and chicken clucks
moos and barkings




I a creature
amongst
other creatures




sharing this
the same
moment





grateful
I am
for their acceptance




oh I must go. . .
a butterfly
needs to talk to me

CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad

(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.

The thing that gets me the most down
And makes me feel the most sad
Is how clearly and significantly
Different I am
From everyone
That clucks and clutters
And zips and zaps
Their voices so loud I can barely hear myself
So I find myself blaming
The place
For what it is
And what it is not.