He is a swan and he sits on a black lake trying desperately to save his feathers from soiling.
They all sit around him bobbing their heads in the filth and minding not one bit.
And as time goes by he knows his feathers have begun to dull
And he tries to fly away from it all
But they refuse to let him, he cannot fly, he is but a swan they tell him with pleasure
And he keeps getting filthier as they help paint each feather
And the lake begins to look more like a prison
And he watches his reflection become what he hates
He forgets about that before that has driven him
And he waits and he waits and he waits and he waits
For something he knows will never come
Help from elsewhere so he won’t have to try
Help from elsewhere to make it easy to fly
This help does not come as it was never out there
There’s no help for a swan that’s full of despair
Only he can turn his prison of hate, a lake full of muck, into a better landscape
The day will come when the swan flies away
And the others will watch and they’ll wonder and gasp
Because they thought swans were only swans, they know this from swans that lived in the past
And as this swan flies, sure his feathers are dull, he can barely flap, and his wings are quite small
But now he can see every lake all around
For there are many that wait for him to be found.

Within the lonely tunnels of the underground
lurk soft honeysuckle smiles.
These young hopefuls are surrounded by darkness
but in each one, there is a hidden light.

For some, this light is an idea.
For others, a burning passion waiting to be exploited.
But for a select few, this light is their whole self
- their being is a treasure yet to be released into the world.

He is the first light that shone so wildly,
I could see it even from within his mind.
He is dipped in talent and purity,
unseen in the higher, filthier realm.

One day, these hopefuls will surface from the underground.
And he will be the first spark of this fire
that illuminates our hopeless world
with the eternal flame of art.

As my Bright Hopeful shines above
I will remain in the dark underground
where my light has long since dimmed out.
And i will wonder if he remembers the match that lit him.

The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.

Her beauty is astounding
It leaves my heart pounding
I won't bore you with the details
But when she walks past an angel hails

I try to explain this feeling
How she sets my head reeling
But she pushes me away
"Ugly got too close to me today"

She doesn't care that I'm a girl
And she sets my head in a whirl
It's my look she objects to
The cruelty of nature, through and through

Every day I try, I do
To get those thre words out "I love you"
Every day she shows me
The dirt is the only place I can ever be

"Ugly. I'm pretty. You're not."
I don't care a jot
Her hands are filthier than mine
Disinfectant doesn't change a detail so fine

"Ugly. I'm pretty. You can never be."
It's true, I know, as I fall to on knee
She looks perfect but her heart is flawed
There's only one way she can be cured

"Pretty. I'm Ugly. You should be too.
I only do this because I love you
The knife slices through her skin
I hold her frame, so gentle and thin

"I'm Ugly now, you're to blame."
Through her bandages her eyes are aflame
"You were always Ugly, to the core
Be Pretty my love, as never before."

You intrigue me
With your ***** humor
And filthier mind
Look at the time
I should be in bed
But instead
I'm talking to you
With your *** soaked tongue
And your poems for fun
You intrigue me

He is almost filthier than
The twenty pigeons that he
Somehow has gathered enough
Scraps to feed.

Almighty to them.
Bringer Of Food.
"Look," someone says,
"Parasites on a parasite!"

I think of gods. And parasites,
Picking laughs from
Their unjudgemental
Hands.

Mark me, bite me, do anything you want
When it comes to love and lust you’re a natural born savant
Your teeth on my skin
Your nails digging in
Your lips, in that grin
Are filthier than sin
And by the time you’re through
I’ll forget I ever knew
Anything other than your name.

Ireland is beginning to
look like India, we are
just as *****, filthier in
fact, when one considers
the population ratio, not
to mention our so called
affluence and no military
navy or airforce to ****
from the nations coffers.
The Irish Republican Army
funded themselves, yet the
government proscribed them.
The only efficient organisation
in the country, our Hezbollah.
Now they are anti democracy,
trying to do to The Brexiters
what they complained of here
for centuries, not recognised.
Ireland is beginning to look
like India, our flags are similar,
so is our Prime Minister, perhaps
he doesn't notice the litter, that's
it, Plastic Popadoms, recyclable.

The frog-spotted leaves fading from the trees picked by sticky, little hands
Remind me of all the seconds that have passed
And inversely, the infinity that lines every moment;
The infinite me’s that have been slaughtered and reborn—
Eyes peeking through the ash, stretching my neck
Out to the world that will warm my fleshy, new skin.

But my body’s made a home of the doldrums,
Clipped feathers and heavy air, breathing strangulation—
How hard it is for me to see you in color;
You were black and white—
A noir film in high contrast, a classic tragedy:
Touched fingertips before wilting into static.
Our great debut, and now we are left,
Our bones growing brittle,
To grasp for loneliness with someone else.

And I could not stand, vacant
As an empty room, so I filled myself with
Wrath like warm exhaust fumes,
Overturning memories like a systemized holocaust
Just to liken you to a shadow puppet.

But the curation of spite lights the crook of your mind that shelters the
Remnants and splinters of separate, past lives you
Shed like a sleeve of skin.
Slivers of frozen time like artifacts at attention,
Preserved and obscured beneath a smudged pane of glass
That grows thicker and filthier—
Here lies validation for all the fruitless pain; blind happiness; lost time.

With dust collecting upon breath,
I find you who was once the blush that quilts the earth in cotton before the settling sun
And remember your comfort: a sweet cherry lozenge
Melting and staining the inner corners of lips;
Burgundy of heavy habit, of restless nights and dry, shut mouths;
Of stale disappointment through knotted fists,
Yet the warmth of a matted childhood blanket,
We had in a glance.

The few quivering embers that lay
In the back of our throats suffocate:
We are ash
And crushed violets of dark circles and the beauty in failure.
But while memories fade into ghosts and people into fog,
You will always be
Two blue diamonds, in a wash of golden light
Yawning through the veil of smoke and seconds,
Withholding your spectrum.

I only have looked at him once and I haven't been able to look away,
There was something captivating about him,
Maybe it was the way he ran his hand softly through his messy hair everytime he got nervous,
Or maybe it was the way he bit his lip before throwing his head back to laugh everytime he cracked a joke.
Or was it how his eyes sparkled with innocence and mischief.

He was surely made of a different stardust,
Something rare,
Something special,
Surely God spent a little too much time creating him because theres no other way to explain how someone could be so perfect,
His heart was purer than gold,
And his head filthier than the sewers,
He was the best of both worlds,
And he was mine.