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.