no ghosts

no tree
no lights
no laughter
just me
no chains
no warnings
no ghosts
just me

just me

pour some electricity on me

the violation of lifeless graves

re-attaching dead souls

catching electricity with kites

and re-sparking minds
there is a science to this flesh

no God is needed

and when mankind sees my creation's heart
and looks into his mismatched eyes

they will overlook the blood under my nails

and their screams and pitchforks
will simply melt into applause

(For my Dr. Frankenstein... I get it. I really do. A body in progress.)

a day in the life of my heart

there are worlds forming

around the moments I lock in my heart

there are loves and lovers

there are places, storms and blinding sunlight

there are seasons of gold, white and green

their music ingrains my soul

and now as the moments fall around me

and as I perceive the seconds as days

and the minutes as years

I understand my relationship with time

it was always just a journey

and it was always just mine

8th May 2010

she lives in a tear

she comes to me in the early hours
in that moment where dawn washes past the eyes
and evicts the dreams
there was a day I never forget
we sat together in a summer field
drinking cider and ruminating over our love
we planned our tomorrows with military precision
but we never saw our fates peel apart
and I never saw or imagined her ending
I went back to that place once
I sat in that field and I talked to her
as I left I turned around and looked at that moment
out of time and space
had I known that was our last day
I would have never let her go

katie part 2

katie,
I have been married,
divorced
and in out of love,
since you left.
I have children and
they look like me, katie,
but they don't like me.
I have had success
and I have known failure
both in unequal measure.
but I keep moving forward, katie.
I really don't know any more
than that.
growing up
has been a mixture
of pain and joy.
but I have lived, katie
and you still own moments
in my life.
I often close my eyes
and remember you.
I don't believe in gods, katie
and I know you can't hear me.
but I carry you with me
and I always will.
I owe you that,
in lieu of the life
you never had.



(Katie, was a young girl that I met as a young boy. She was in a wheelchair and her life was short. I remember her asking me to be her boyfriend. Embarrassed, I pulled away..... and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think.. I should have said, "ok".)

double bed blues

I am half
a less than generous portion
laying between
these distant edges
awashed and lost within
an ocean of Egyptian cotton
but sometimes in peaceful nights
before I embrace my dreams
I look to my left and
imagine it filled with a sleepy smile
and eyes that hold a key
to dispersing the shadows
that surround me

art

we wander halls
surrounded by Rembrandt and Vermeer
I watch you laugh
at the fools encasing Gogh's pain
within Facebook selfies
yearning for loves and likes
then caught by an old sunrise
I turn and see the brush strokes in your hair
and those varnished lips
that frame your smile
of all the works of art
in this world
for me
in that moment
there was only one

the paper defence

you only have to
touch my armour
and it disappears
you only have to
whisper my name
and I will kneel
in defeat
all that I would
fight and die for
lays like dry parchment
in your palm
you only have to
close it
and I am dust

the love note

the pen

traces the words

on my lips

the paper becomes a witness

your eyes my judge

your heart my jury

pieces

my heart

was broken

your hands

were all that held it

together

in this heart

there are tears here
and laughter that still hurts my sides.
there is my daughter's voice
and my son's infectious laugh.
there's a first love,
found in a school disco;
as blondie talked about hearts of glass.
in the shadows there are goodbyes,
some final,
all painful.
but there are fresh first kisses here too
and stale drunken promises
that were broken before they were spoken.
I have a thousand and one faces
from twenty thousand days.
there are places torn from context
and buried in the amber of time.
half forgotten jokes
and fragments of memories,
that twist themselves
into my dreams like knives.
but this heart knows me
better than I know myself.
for when I am weighed down
by doubt or loneliness.
it reminds me that there is still space to fill
and the time to fill it.

my lament

she was my mother.
as a child I recall
her dressing me
and brushing my hair before school.
she even flattened a cowlick once
with the quick lick of her thumb.
there was always food on my plate
and a warm bed.
christmas was pillow cases full of toys
and easter was a wall of chocolcate eggs.
I used to sneak into their bedroom some nights
and sleep between them.
my mum.
my dad.
he is gone now.
reduced to ashes in a box.
whilst she just sits there.
her mind wiped of memories.
her stare empty of recognition.
one is dead.
one is missing.
but both are gone.

what they changed in me

for one I became a vegetarian
for one I prostituted my soul
for one I abandoned mozart
for one I moved over to the right side of the bed
for one I lost weight
for one I started learning a new language
for one I started watching soaps
for one I become a catholic
but I am fucked if I know
what they changed for me.

when I am gone

I am a shadow now,
a faded signature in a
birthday card I gave you
when you were eight.
my voice is thrown into your past,
faintly heard but indistinguishable.
yet one day
memories will surface,
triggered by deadpool
or brides with samurai swords.
then you'll hear me again
and as you tell these old stories
to a generation I will never know,
that aspect of your eye
that holds our history
will hold us both again.
I will watch you as you talk about me
and smile as you paint my flesh to bones.
then when these tales are told
and you start to pack them away,
I will step closer and remind you
of what binds you to me
and me to you.

everything in life dissolves, Frances.

everything but love.



(For my Niece)

dust

end this
before fire consumes
my world.
end this
before time unravels
within my empty spaces.
end this
before my mind
unfolds logic
within the infinity
of a single choice.

end this.
end it now.

and let the dust of time
hide it from us both.

the black queen

there's a ghost
in this bed,
half lost in shadows
and encroaching night.
I think I know her
and sometimes
I even feel her name upon my lips.
but I am too scared to speak
for fear she will leave me.
within the outline of a gentle smile
and with eyes that are pure darkness
she forms besides me.
in silence her arms welcome me
with a touch that is both
cold and alluring
and some nights I lay
as still as death itself,
as she wraps herself
around me
and squeezes out the
last light in my eyes.
as sleep slowly engulfs me,
I yield to this black queen.
then,
only then,
do I finally hear her voice
"fall into me, my love" she whispers
and I do

who am I (part 2)

constructed from
worn out plastic parts.
tap dancing
to a cello
on quicksand.
or riding blind 
on an emotional unicycle.

immorally centered 
and walking alone within a crowd.

fuelled by an empty meth tank,

whilst sexually garaged in my guilt.
wheel-less and perched on bricks,
whilst philosophically awaiting for a bus
that doesn't stop.

that's me.

basically fucked.

but always fervently optimistic.

those who held the brushes

I always wanted to be an artist. At a very early age I was left in awe of the great works of art, hanging in the London galleries. As I got older I realised that the imagery in these paintings was not the only reason for my desire to paint. It was the years that this paint had aged in its pigment. Looking at paintings for me was about context and history. These were relics from our past. Crude snapshots of moments we can only imagine.

Today we drown in selfies and short videos. Painting is more abstract as modern technology can capture reality more clearly than the human eye can perceive it. How we record time now is also clinical and devoid of passion. The galleries have emptied now and although a rare Picasso will cause a stir. We do not yearn for old warships caught in sunsets or ballerinas practising on dusty wooden floors. We prefer instead to mentally ingest half naked celebrities trapped within pouty lipped selfies. We add likes and hearts. We pile upon these shallow few the gratitude of our ignorance; for art is truly dead.

I still visit these galleries and I still stand there, mostly alone. Then before these great masters I offer my heart and my humble gratitude. For these artists who held a brush and whose eye was the conduit for their emotions and the beauty they witnessed, were in truth the purest souls in our world. Not knowing that they were also the harbingers of our digital doom.

where do I go wrong?

1. narcissist
2. selfish
3. cold
4. cruel
5. insensitive
 

for some 

these are traits to avoid,

for me

they appear to be

a fucking shopping list

(I had a moment. A very lucid moment about a woman who was just one in a long line of women. I stood back. I pulled them all out of the darkness and looked at them. My conclusion was clear. I am a fucking idiot.... no more. )

my logic

Me: "Should I give up on her, God? Just give me a sign. Any sign. I'll be waiting."

God: Chernobyl forest fires, Krakatoa erupts, Global Pandemic.

Me: *calls her*

bridges

gathering kindling
with glee.
pouring explosives
into the cracks
and then lighting
the whole damn lot;
as some bridges
deserve to be blown
to fucking bits.

dreaming in temple bar

I am happily lost here. Unknown and unfettered by all that weighs me down. Here within the Autumn evening I am leaf upon the Liffey, swirling within the laughter and smiles. She greets me with hugs that erase the tiredness of my day and imbued by confidence I kiss her cheek.

"That was brave."
"We're a brave race." I reply.
She looks at me and shakes her head.

Then she wraps my name within a wink and takes my hand. Willingly I am dragged into her world of singing and a thousand bottled spirits; perched upon shelves that only an angel could reach. After a meal and idle conversation she suggests that we leave the noise for the dying light and the gentle rain. Seventeen steps down the street she stops me. She looks at me but says nothing. Then she tilts her head and smiles, as if a question is finally answered.

"You're broken."
"I don't know how to answer that." I reply.
"Can anyone?"

She smiles and shrugs but gives no explanation. Then with a shake of her head and a laugh she starts to walk again. We talk about Ireland and England. We compare notes and wince over historic facts. Then she starts to talk to me in her native tongue. There is truth in these words even though I do not understand their meaning.

"I'm in love with a language that I will never understand." I tell her.
"And unluckily for you, broken Irish will always be smarter than clever English."

We start to walk again and knowing that I am lost in the maze of her words, I simply yield and let her stories and conversation wash over me. As we arrive at my hotel I anticipate stealing a kiss as we say goodnight. The rain has eased and the traffic seems to be emptying and surrendering to the night.

"I'll get you a taxi."
"Why?" she asks.

I look at her puzzled. Thinking that we're about to start another adventure. I instantly fear for my liver and wonder where I will find the energy.

"You're a little slow for an Englishman aren't you?
"I don't..." She cuts my words short with a loaded smile and another wink.

"The left side of the bed is always mine." she adds as she starts to walk into my hotel.

That night, for what had felt like an eternity, I fell asleep to the sound of a woman breathing on my left. I dreamed peacefully and untroubled; like I did when I was a boy. In the morning as we share buttered toast and tea I tell her that I feel fixed.

"You're lucky I knew what to do." she tells me.

I nod in agreement as my voice is now superfluous..... to even my existence.

the fair

hook the duck
with the faded beak
in the barrel of dirty water.
shoot the dented deer
shimeeing and shaking
in fear as you aim.
but these are not ways
to win hearts,
just goldfish
and large flammable
teddy bears,
that nobody really wants.

progress

a younger me
would demand to hear
from your lips
the words
I need
but this older me
really couldn't
give a fuck

the game

sometimes I wake too early.
so I lay there
in the dark.
watching my demons
raise the stakes,
as they play
for my heart.
I can not object.
I can not stop their bets.
so I just pull my mortgaged life
around me
and go back to sleep.

I'm that guy

I'm the one
they reach out to
when boyfriends beat them.
I'm the one
they reach out to
when employers abuse
and humiliate them.
I'm the one
they reach out to
when they are vulnerable
and alone.
I'm the one
they reach out to
when the pandemic hits
and their Friday night's die.


and I am the first one
they forget
when their lives restart.

women

I always see them coming.
walking towards me,
like slow purposeful bullets.
tipped with kryptonite lipstick.
I can't dodge.
I can't duck.
I just stand there
begging to get shot
and when it is all over.
I just lay there.
wrecked and smiling
whilst trying hard not
to give Munch
his scream.

words

words are not who I am
they carry my emotions
and sometimes craft
my deepest pain
but words are not who I am
yes they occasionally tear out
my sorrow
but they also throw my joy
into fluorescent smiles
but words are not who I am
they help me explain the moments
that I experience
as my heart
crashes through days
and people
that impact upon me
like tiny meteorites
upon a moon
but words are not who I am
they explain only a second
of this man's life
a man who chose to write about
the things that everyone else
hides inside

piece of cake

twenty one
days alone.

isolated.

detached from a world.

no human contact.

no touch.

no love.

I can do that

on my head.

blindfolded

and naked,

because

I've been doing

that for years.

letting go

I would have followed you
through a million hells.
but there comes a time
when waiting
becomes a prison
and when love
becomes a poison,
in you heart
and mind.
so I am giving up on you.
I'm letting you fall
where you fall
and shedding this weight
that I have carried for too long.
I have no regrets.
not one.
my choices were mine alone.
but in the end
you promised me nothing
and some promises
should be kept.

infatuation

you'd think
that seeing a knife
staring up from
between my ribs
would remind me
that infatuation hurts
like a mother fucker

nope

turn left

how do we change?
how do we stop longing
for what we can not hold?
these false desires
are just illusions
that inhabit a shadow
of a man
who can not turn left

tides

the tides of the heart
wash in the debris of a thousand lives
and carry away our broken stories
and unfinished dreams
but still we stand here waiting
as if lost between the waves
or swept up by the salty breeze
that dries our souls
I played here with my toys as a child
and now I sit here as a man
weighted by life
for there is a longing in me
a desire to find peace
and a connection to my youth
so with eyes closed
and hands that know only emptiness
I think of the ocean between us
that is steered by your moon
and then I hear a voice
your voice
which sounds my heart
and points me towards home