Category: Poetry





the teacher who won’t learn what he teaches
the preacher who doesn’t practice what he preaches
the authority figure who demands to be respected
the inspector who refuses to be inspected

the person who asks you not to ask questions
the close-minded friend shut off to suggestions
the self-proclaimed victim in search of sympathy
the dangerous ones who are strangers to empathy


the gossips who talk behind your back
the ones quick to point out all that you lack
the boss who pays you less than you’re worth
the lover who promises to give you the earth

the writer who tells stories but never writes
the voter persuaded by empty sound-bytes
the woman who always has to be in control
the holy man who wants to save your soul


the argumentative type who won’t be debated
the tax collector who fingers what he’s confiscated
the salesman who offers you guarantees
the priest who wants you to get on your knees

the brother who pretends it’s his wife’s decision
the surgeon who cuts without precision
the gambler who’s afraid to roll the dice
the poet who offers dubious advice!

When my love goes away
the sun’s light grows strong
I wish night would just stay
heat of day lasts too long


But whenever my love comes
dark raincloud pours over me
Beating soft as distant drums
cooling me like a shady tree

© 2013 WW

He fails to realise his self-delusion
Due to living in the dark of denial
He watches helpless in confusion
As he disappears in downward spiral

Inability to trust fills him with doubt
Numbing alcoholism empties his cup
Burning desires turn him inside out
Forever falling keeps him downside up


He’s a jumbled up mess of contradictions
So selfish he only shares his pain
Imprisoned by pressing predilections
Losing it all in his blind search for gain

Too paranoid to let the outside in
Affects a smile when he causes a frown
Drowning in a filthy bucket of sin
Believing the whole world is upside down

– 2014 WW



Once upon a deep blue day –
a day much closer than far away –
the moon to the sky did get stuck
and yellow sun stopped coming up


This pale blue dot stood still in space
and refused to turn the human race
sickened by their waste and greed
and how they cause everything to bleed


Without rain the rivers ran bone dry
stars burnt out in the darkening sky
without the sun there was no more heat
and soon there was nothing left to eat


Every son turned against his mother
each sister was suspicious of her brother
and for himself it was every man
in a fingersnap the killing began


The whole world was turned inside out
all certainty gave way to doubt
pitch darkness struck everyone blind
without the light humans lost their mind


As the truth devolved into lies
people evolved their disguise
overwhelmed under crushing weight
love was buried beneath hate


When madness ceased and man was history
the earth revealed its deepest mystery
it never mattered what was right
then it dropped

down and out

of sight

floating along on surface
moving through Saturday city
looking around at all the sights
soaking everything up
feet on automatic pilot
leaving prints on pavement
sneaking skimming stones
treading watery grave

keeping wits about me
smiling beneath shining sun
foot-loose and fancy free
keeping it real having fun
on the level above board
on the up and up
straighter than an arrow
or as a die that’s been tossed
but has not yet landed
destination undecided

alive with possibility
free to go where I please
ready to take an opportunity
when it crosses my path
until now doing the math
had no purpose
nothing I had to do or have
freed me up to be me
I could take in a show
or go see the circus
daydreaming the day
I had dreamed

shoved out of way
by some guy out of blue
knocked sideways on sidewalk
equilibrium interrupted
unable to talk
feet falling over themselves
gaze dropping like litter to ground
snagged by crack in path
taking hold of attention
refusing to let go

unable to stop
I step right into it
right foot first followed by left

and then that’s when everything shifts

life falling below (in)to a



new level

where it’s beginning to add up

to nothing makes sense
and nobody knows you from Adam
and you can’t sit on a fence
and there’s no place like home

they they want to know my business
but refuse to get to know me
and when asked to explain
no one ever answers straight
twisted tongues tying disappointments’
loose ends pointing in all directions
to bottomless list of questions

why is nobody trying to help stop
crack in sidewalk swallowing me into black
just like me fancy-loose and foot-free looking
all about them but never below their own feet
most didn’t see me disappearing underground

the few that did witness didn’t want to get involved
floating along surface feet on automatic-pilot
keeping chins up and wits about them
following the crowd leaving me to be slowly eaten

slo-mo sinking into crack on busy sidewalk
sucked into a world filled with sneakers running
by its own set of rules and those I once knew
down here no longer have traction

losing all grip I start slipping
subtraction inch by inch in an instant I disappear


fraction by fraction I realise everything
is different to all I thought I’d known before
and the understanding that the nature of the game
pot me will not be revealed I suddenly insanely see
nothing much has changed everything’s the same


Nocturnal ink flows
above bed under sheets
in between wrong and right
rolling down burning red cheeks
wet strings drooling soaking pillows
windows sweating slow condensation
droplets sliding down like sad starlets
speeding up in their descendency
into swelling pool’s dark depths
words above remaining dry
bed going up in flames
choking… as I sink

Clarence Returns 047



Forsaking the place I called home
I’m taking a break from this world
Leaving behind only this poem
I’m breaking the heart of my girl

Having run clean out of luck
I’m going away on a trip
Down to my very last buck
I’m stowing away on a ship

Driven mad by accusing voices
I’m leaving the noise far behind
Abandoned by options and choices
I’m grieving the loss of my mind


Unable to play the crooked game
I’m getting out of this criminal town
With only myself left to blame
i’m laying all of my weapons down

Mouth shut and eyes open wide
I’m facing into obscurity
Letting go the last of my pride
I’m embracing cold insecurity

© 2014 OMTRINITY 015


Branches 006

It feels as though I have been cursed
with bad karma following me around.
And yet to come will be the worst
before I’m buried in the cold ground.
Branches 009
I fear I can’t hold on much longer
as bad things happen every day.
This killing thing don’t make me stronger
and nothing good ever goes my way.

Branches 012

Each sharp blow another coffin nail:
I used to win but now only lose.
Each plan I make is doomed to fail…
unable to sing I whistle the blues.
Branches 004
Shit keeps hitting this failing fan
now that I’ve run clean out of luck.
Good fortune’s covered by a ban
and I no longer give a fuck!

© 2014 OM


NY Lol 017Poking in pockets for coins to purchase one-way ticket
H feels like he imagines how the proverbial stranger
in the strange land might have felt before disappearing
without trace. And being a stranger, he would also disappear
without notice. He hadn’t given any and none would be taken.
Strange, he thinks, hadn’t he always felt this way? Clarence Returns 029

This place had never felt like home, just another space in which he didn’t belong. The fit was wrong. Now that he had decided to leave it really made no difference. This intensely lonely feeling would soon be gone..
if he could only hold his hand steady enough to operate
this ticket-vending touch-screen menu before him.

photo (1)
Frozen fingertip taps machine’s scratched screen as he raises
his other hand to mouth where tear-stained palm stifles sad laughMalahide 035
covers bad cough. Strange, he thinks again, abstractly
on machine to sum everything up before indelibly
printing ticket to final destination) about time
and how it slows down
as approaching train
draws closer.

Mr Blue Sky 005Journey’s cost totaled, H stoops for ticket, focusing in  on black period at end of line. Full stop. Clanking change falls splashed down like rain. Wind’s icy spear pierces flesh of face, burrows into bone marrow. Numbing. A sudden blast of wind takes advantage of the opening at back of shirt collar and what feels like a bucket of ice cubes envelopes his torso. Should have hitched a lift? He sighs shaking head, but
it’s a bad night
to be thumbing.

Train slows to a stop and green doors’ wide arms slide open. H is carried by pushy mob hurriedly piling in all spooked and unstoppable unyielding to oppositely directed passengers wanting to get out. Inside is bright and suffused with a fetid steaminess. If he were to somehow manage to get rid of it, he wonders absently, could it rightly be said that the nauseating stink had been defetid?
Sad laugh returns for a moment, evaporates
with the closing of (9)
Everyone is looking every which way – through slippery windows, down
at littered ground, at their too long fingernails… anywhere except
into the face of another. People these days go to great lengths
to avoid eye-contact. It lets them keep pretending to the ones
they are pretending are not there that they are the only one here,
invisible and somehow sorry – to whoever may happen to notice –
simply for being, taking up space… wanting to be right in being left out.
Refusing to belong, they say they have to go. And when asked,
promise not to be long.

Clarence Returns 020Light as an autumn leaf, H falls into warm seat on Jerry-Lee’s Green Line
travelling east to see a god about a man. Going all the way today.
To the end of the line. Full stop. Determinal in his destin(y)ation
was the Point. Why? Had to be the Point. What’s the Point?
A small area at end of the Docklands famous for theatre of same name…
but that’s not important right now. He sees no point in calling it by another, and fails to do so.

Sunny Summer Evening 006


Anyway, it’s a short walk from there to the sea. You can see the candy cane twin towers of the Poolbeg Chimneys on a clear day. Getting there… that’s the point of this journey…

Pole Thiker 019

which is stranger than this town… because…
there is no longer any point.
You’ve got a point there!

H had heard the rumors that he had lost the plot. Well, that isn’t really too far off the mark, but more accurate to claim he was lost in the plot. A plot that dissolved as it thickened. For the last three days he’s been drowning in inky black ocean of subtext, ankles tangled in seaweed tendrils pulling
him under, pushing him to belong. But he’snot afraid of the water. We’re like old friends.
As in the beginning 
so to in the end. Simday Sept 231
Full stop

As above, so below.
A little round black dot… as lost as a piece of coal
in a field blanketed with snow.

Bemused and curious, he turns head left and gazes
at blurry reflection in window. A hollow man. A stranger unto himself. A hologram. Lightning strikes furious blows, bowing in the expectancy of approbation – way back off in the distance deep in back of mind, up in the balcony where mirror is hidden – is met almost immediately with thunderous approving applause. Beneath his breath, like life under death, H begins to whisper forbidden last train of thoughts to the face fading into transparency right before his eyes.

Clarence Returns 047It started soon as you were born: innocent victim of belligerent crime… big enough to be punished for.
And, you wonder, by whom? The Narrator, Orator, Creator? Makes no difference what you call it.
It comes to lower the boom whether you call it or not…
for the sins of father, the stupidity of mother…
Reaper’s bony knuckles rapping on door.
To collect debt owed. The inescapable consequence
of the seed they sewed.

Luas comes to halt beside tall stone wall. H isn’t sure wherephoto (7)
they are anymore and stops craning neck trying to find out.
Draped by a sudden paralysis stiffer and heavier than
a Store Street cell blanket he feels raw-like half-digested meat
after going a bloody round with the World. Heavy Weight
of Mastication. A shadow passes over his face (mouth shuts)
causing grave expression to hover above features.
He is a slave to each wave of peristalsis pushing him down
snakelike swallowed backwards, intestines (guts) pulling
Nov Weekend 001onward to final (de)st(in)ation when trip’s over
vanishing into another beginning –
full circle –
where loosened grip uncoils
from Time’s twisted tapeworm shadow.
An abrupt lurch gives way
to forward motion.

Seeing is not believing… isn’t that what they said with closed eyes
using words like brushes painting vivid pictures on wall of mind’s eye
where bright white light is imagined in a warm, spacious room…
not the slightest hint of gloom…

H looks into crowd when disturbed by soundMiley and Miley 045
reminding him of a preacher. Preaching
through tines of forked-tongue delivering
mixed messages into back of schoolboy’s head,
speaking words that can’t or won’t or should not be understood. H manages…
manages to drown.
the noise out by counting glittering stars
littering abandoned playground lost in murky black puddle.

Your resistance weakened by too much drinking, you failed, ran out of persistence, gave into their insistence and got impaled on the pointlessness of deluded thinking. Trapped and stuck in place. Your heart was in the right place, but your head was in a mess. Instead of leaving behind in the distance all the blind believing,
all the self-deceiving, you let yourself fall
under their spell… and you fell back on faith.

Christians 022And what did you find? Not a thing.
No thing. Nothing. Not a shred of joy or peace of mind.
Indeed, that is what you lost. If only you’d understood the difference between sticker price and the overall cost.

Holding tattered Metro like dirty rag – wrinkled and used – a pair of hands come into focus. Looking away to his right, H catches sight of an old dear who appears to be hiding beneath a floral patterned scarf, nose picking bony finger pointing his attention away. Gaze drops
to soaking floor where there’s nothing but door to door shoes.
He notes this old one’s feet wear funny footwear, the kind$cientology 002
sold in a Chemist’s shop on the wrong side of town, down
beyond the tracks where trains like rain never stop until
summer smiles start spinning in time with the Ferris Wheel
that came and went.
Full circle.
A sneak peak shows dim lights back of her eyes twinkling:
slip-sliding into a memory… a memory of a time…
a time she’d been happy… and for a fleeting moment she is…
dreaming… content in the now of not being here.

Spire in the SkyBelieving is seeing, they said… promising you’d be perceiving reason or it would see you in the appropriate season and your harvest of pictures would actually bloom, the main attraction was always coming soon.

And when you realised they meant it hypothetically and not matter-of-factually, a crushing weight sealed your fate and delivered you into a pitch dark tomb reeking rich doom, you lay quiet and still beneath Potter’s Field. Squashed flatter than Wile E Coyote underneath Acme anvil…
hyperbolically speaking.

Stuttering towards town’s dirty bowels, passing row after rowPole Thiker 007
of dead dull facades, H wonders which of the passengers
are looking for love in the heart of the city’s bottomless pit.
Bright lights flash like a ready-for- business casino where they
will step-right-up placing bets against long odds. Just as long
as what they win pays to get them out of their heads for
the night so they can more easily act as though they find funny
the joke that’s on them.
They laugh in the face of its humourlessness, scream
when it swallows them whole. crying like babies after
being spit out to go back and shout loud in the flowing crowd
they hope they can still swim in.

Monday Nr 4 Courts 011These passengers…
the expressions on their faces…
bring to mind haunted bells ringing
hollow and true… at the same time…
knackered and undaunted.
If they cancelled each other out, there would be no sound. And this… perhaps… is why we never hear them no matter how loud they shout.
They are as empty as a cup cracked, stained with cheap altar wine – a tired tumbleweed blown away into dust
dried up body of Christ
from deadwood
cross beams

Under scrutiny-eyes you got caught. Caught and told. Told to utilise all resources available, maximise learning – reading and courses and tapes. Getting coached and moulded and trained. Believing you were unassailable
you opened up and made yourself available. You were bought. Bought and sold. Sold on a waving sail flapping in wicked wind like a post-it note reminder that makes you forget. Accentuate the positive
eliminate the negative. Take hold of your brain and wash it clean.$cientology 082
Make sure it’s disinfected and not confounded by unfounded doubts
or over-tasked with unasked for suggestions, stupid questions
unuseful attitudes. You were promised they’d all be rejected after
the confessing… that you’d receive the blessing of unbounded beatitudes.
If only you’d gotten a check up from the neck up when you still
had the chance! Spare me your platitudes, if you don’t mind.
I didn’t spare you any but I do see how it would be possible for you
to think so. I just said something off the top of my head –
something so obvious it literally goes without saying, that when
the time was right for you to get your head seen to
you didn’t take the opportunity.

$cientology 061It’s Paddy’s Day and the whole world is celebrating the legend of a saint.
Those wanting to be part of the scene have worn something green.
Patrick allegedly rid this Isle of snakes, but like everything else on the face of this land in the cold artificial light of night, that view does not make sense since there were never snakes
to be driven away. But this fact –
about a Christian character
who performed a meaningless act –
fails to make any difference.
Truth overwhelmed by tradition. Suppression by superstition.
We toe the lie without thinking for no good reason, with the exception
of course, of drinking.
Ah, sure, any excuse will do
to go downtown and drown
in another session.

Death is the ultimate personal banker,
H tells his reflection then winks as if it’s a joke. 705010_10151558659182222_1723330662_o
The high priest of punitive payment –
a legitimate but pervy old wanker. NY Lol 057
Your first and last accountant –
he waves a scythe disguised as a sceptre –
he inspector of your suspect books
you thought of as a transparent broth
stirred together by too many cooks,
unaware you hadn’t a prayer when
it turned out the murky soup was brewed
by a bunch of Celtic Tiger crooks, each one
as mean and bad as Liberty Valance,
but not nearly as clever as those in the Vatican.
And after the adding and subtracting of sums
to see if the figures actually balance,
your soul will begin its slide down
into bottomless slums. 

You kick yourself for crossing the lines. Not heeding drums of warning signs that beat lowly before you slowly die… at first, inside…

June 29 2012 011

Lost in dreams, H only vaguely senses train moving slower. Overhead is heard a discomfiting sound:
a distorted pre-recorded female voice, posh as a nun from D4, knees on floor pleasantly praying
(or is that presently playing?) saying for Abbey Street alight at next stop.

AIB Homeless 026
Beginning to brake, he comes fully awake, dropping gaze lower and sitting up straight. Eyes fall
on face of a young man with waxy skin, sporting menacing grin, swaying by doors and
swigging the black stuff from can of thin tin with widget that gives thick head, burping
while slurping it down in the manner of a patient taking medicine. The jaundiced youth
scratches Lotto cards between mouthfuls of stout, sideways sloping, searching for pot of gold,
ready for ghost ship to come in, begging under breath in monotone ramble, asking god to throw
some good luck his way, even though he undoubtedly knows that to gamble is a sin,
and seems in no mood for giving a fuck.

Teddy 002The pile of wasted cards surrounding his surprisingly pristine trainers
speak of the fact that Lady Luck stood him up and Dame Fortune let him down. Just another pair of missing persons that may as well be relegated to images on flyers adhered to lampposts: a pair of talismans no longer at hand, taken by the land beneath the rain,
fading into the mists of time
like old photographs
collecting dust.

Illusions 092But that’s just wishing in vain… may as well be gone fishing in rain… if only you’d made different choices and hadn’t listened to the voices that spoke in your head and said over and over to your self be true…
remain a free agent, do your work free lance,
avoid sinking by learning to swim, shun evil and strive for purity, stay on the path and don’t
take a chance. But you gambled your stock on a whim, trading freedom for the illusion of

Stuck at red light, H surveys variegated passengers.May Long Weekend 204
At a glance he estimates most are from abroad, and
thinks about how we once called them foreigners…
and how that’s been changed… to lessen the risk of
causing offence. As to a rough breakdown he hazards
a guess. The Genuine Dubliners are about 25%,
more or less. The rest of the Irish (who live here
all year) are around a half of that. Resident Non-
Nationals make up half at best, so that means
the Tourists make up the rest.

WatercolorEach of them claims to have Irish inside as they wink
with a sense of pride and belonging. More ingredients
in the melting pot of simmering Irish stew. Some think
of it as their original home. He’s not sure as he stares
on in silence, who the real Irish are anymore. The
natives, like a hanging hem on a dress, are the ones
that look out of place.
It’s getting harder to
say who is us and
who is them.

Once Captain of your own dinghy, though weathered and battered and badly leaking, you were sadly flattered when asked to join another man’s yacht,

and stupidly thought that was all that mattered. In the sails tightly caught you were rightly sold and bought in the sales even faster. Felt out of place, out of time in a kind of space oddity standing under
the authority of your new master. You were not an indispensable commodity, you too late realised
and your despising, upon further conceptualising crystallised into a rock of hate.

Castlecomer (33)

Worse than fingernails scratching a blackboard, a screeching sound –
from a Sheriff Street girl  – elicits a wince from H. She’s clutching an iPhone in the claw of her hand, fake nails painted in luminous shades, glossed lips foaming as orange face goes scarlet. Her appearance is blinging, like the ringing of her mobile, tinny and cheap. The sound reminds H of a cracked cash register in a 2 Euro store lit up like a juke box and loud with muzak. The junk they sell is a pox on the earth, not a single item worth the sticker price… but it’s cheaper than Guineys, who display poorly Thurs Night July 2012 002hand written signs unaware of spelling or punctuation
(a gesture no longer valued by customers) with messages simple and blunt. Thinking the word ‘cunt’,
H takes another look only to find her expression as vacant as the rooms in Wynn’s Hotel.

She eyes the seat beside him that’s just become free and as she draws closer, he smells the fragrant scent of a bitch in heat. He hopes in vain she’ll cross her legs and dispel the ripe and flagrant odor left by the last dog she was with – no doubt one of the homeless, maybe a vagrant or squatter. One thing was for sure: she was somebody’s whore. Anyone’s for money, no longer her mother’s daughter, brother’s token pet slave,
father’s unspoken dirty secret, boyfriend’s broken
punchbag ragdoll… Freedom July 2012 117 each one no doubt, had pushed her into her fall from grace and over the edge down a darkening road where crimes are best left unspoken.
Cheated out of her portion of nurture, the fact she had no future was written all over her face.
She had nothing but a past too tired to remember.
For people like her, getting a job only meant getting fired and making plans was for the birds. The bad side
of nature had rewired her brain and stitched up her wounds with a dis-solvable suture deadening the pain and hunger, leaning her(o)in contrad(icting)irections that always lead her standing with stiff upper lip cold and shivering down some back blind alley, earning 5 for a job
handy and quick fingertips dancing for erection’s relief while imagining the warmth of a brandy in a pub
she hadn’t yet been barred from.

Sean O'Casey PubThere is only one direction you regret not going in. If you got a second chance, you’d happily return to your own little boat. You would travel light commando-style, dancing on deck as you sailed to a new life in France incognito, where never again would you change your stance on the fly burning all the bridges so you couldn’t go back. You have been turned
and all you have learned is you cannot return if you try. It’s either a lie or someone made a mistake. Doing your best would pass the test you thought. One step after the other in a crooked line, your dreams would manifest and align under the influence of your singularity of pursuance to protest heartfelt deep desire to acquire your fair share of opulence and affluence… for goodness’ sake.

Sundown 024

Another stop: people get on, people get off. Illusions 109
There’s a man wearing cheap dirty brogues.
Probably works for a bank. Chin held high
and sights set on prize aimed at – money talks
and bullshit walks
is stated in his eyes –
a wind-up man who runs by the clock, mind set
on stocks and shares. No time to tell rational lies,
not that he really cares about truth because he’s
long in the tooth and short on details, wearing
powerless suits and colorless ties, his main MO
is to sell general lies.

Midsummer 004Spinning facts to make  figures count, stating highly persuasive amounts while ducking challenges he considers pervasive. He’s tall and one long diatribe of verbal fucking, endlessly evasive and perplexedly perverse steered by single-minded purpose at forefront of mind at top of his head to the steel caps  on his heels, clicking down hallways always in search
of that yielding door leading to a boardroom
where dreams come true
and wallet grows fatter.
Because he believes,
like the tricks up his sleeves
if his dream is big enough,
the facts don’t matter.
And if he keeps his nose clean,
he could be in for a perk or two,
maybe catch a few breaks
of golden slumbers
as long as he makes
numbers work.


Malahide 088

You used to be like the man in the suit, annoyinglyAugust 3rd pt 2 Weekend 2012 011
positive and insatiably hungry. Half-demented,
goal-oriented,  you’d been imprisoned behind
the bars of  job where you wore brave mask.
You were not expendable or replaceable,
you told yourself again and again believing
with all your might that you could perform
the task of holding up the customer with a smile
and a pen, before robbing her money.
It was insanity. An odd thing to do, isn’t it?
When you were a slave: when you were the one
being robbed of time and humanity.
Hysterically funny.

NY Lol 048A gray crowd of junkies come aboard, shuffling in slow-mo carnival time
drawing H’s attention outwards. Some faces wrecked, others ruined –
all resembling haunted houses over hung by clouds darkening a partial moon. One man’s troubled eyes are broken windows, ledges littered with shattered pains. His girlfriend’s are blown bulbs, stunned silent by the betrayal of vacancy… shunned by moon’s mocking urgency.
The bruised and raggedy girl in between them has a pair of chimney pot eyes that seem to be watching strings of smoke climbing high until they evaporate floating into sky…
proving smoke can exist when fire
does not.
Their heart(h)s are cold, empty of peat briquettes in the chill of night’s silent sighing. H can’t look away from their collective aimless stare, fading pictures in fragile frames propped up by a pole. Zombie bodies mere artifacts
reminding him there once was life…
and now there is
no place like home.

A chicken can run around for as long Monday Nr 4 Courts 015
sometimes hours
after having its head severed
from its body before
finally laying down…
a few scribbled lines
don’t make a poem.
The junkies are dying. So is H.
Life is short…
but Death’s Time
stretches out…
long and crooked
arm of the law.

Freedom July 2012 008H used to love creating characters and writing short stories around them until he slowly came to realise that watching people in real life was
more interesting… and humorous… and terrifying. He’s come to wonder whether
what he wrote didn’t so much tell the reader
about his characters
as it did about himself –
and not specifically
what was objectively real,
but what he imagined he could see,
what he thought he’d heard.
He doesn’t know what is real anymore.
He doesn’t know if he ever knew.

The Voice 014
Apparently, it seems to be, at least from the angle he can see, the kid on the track playing chicken with the driver, is now defiantly urinating as he stands legs akimbo.

Of all this a man with a cane catches a glimpse Speakeasy 338and points ragged finger before posing two questions of his own.

‘What is this idiot trying to prove? Does he want to end up in his grave?’

From behind, a teenage boy with a high-pitched voice

‘Naaah! He’s just too fucking lazy to move!’

Another voice chimes in with an ear to ear grin.

‘Ah sure, he’s only taking the piss!’

A laugh passes through the crowd like a Mexican wave.
Train stops hard without warning. The old dear’s head snaps back! narrowly avoiding head-on collision. Through his own transparent reflection H sees that up ahead, at the top of a curve in the line…

New Kitchen! July 2012 029a shirtless boy standing squarely on the tracks, mugshot exposed and captured in flashflood of Luas’s headlights. Old dear’s feet wake up screaming putting the boot in pulling no punches kicking in pain. A question twists her lips barbed-wire style. ‘When I’m dead,’ she says to no one and everyone, shrugging shrunken shoulders ‘how will I know?’ Cracking a smile, she shakes a fist before wantonly abandoning awareness. As her eyes turn first dull gray, then coal black, they roll around before turning back. Letting go ideas of fairness and free will.
Yielding to the skeletal arms of darkness
nothing to give but a broken heart and a bad liver. Susurously she snores as the train reaches last stop and everyone alights in the lights cast by the hotel.

photo (14)

As fast as he can get his legs to walk,Boxing Day 011
H heads towards the river, head strangely
silent, feeling as though he had swallowed
a large bunch of arrows into a stomach
that feels all aquiver.

It’s time…
he say, standing on the bridge… time to…
stand and deliver. Undo the damage.
Give into the savage. Give it my all…
stand straight and tall… close eyes… and fall

A short trip to the long haul. Down
My Heart.
My mind. Goodbye survival.

Copy of LIffey Divers 005Let’s go into undertow where fines remain unpaid.

Park in the dark and wait with hitched breath for the arrival of death – squinted upon by slitted eye of crescent moon and tow you away in all forms, shapes and sizes.

I am no longer afraid, he soon realises, starting to cough as the shivers in belly become butterflies made of jelly.

Those swimming lessons I never took are about to pay off.

Closing eyes reveals a picture of his father, smiling sadly as if eternally resigned to a feeling of guilt
causing his heart to bend… mind to tilt. how could he ever leave him like this…
wronging believing he was responsible… had to stop.
He had known pain… but never this badly.

Blood Stoney Road 033

NY Lol 015
About 30 feet away to his right, he detects
the outline of a cop moving towards him
in a hurry. Voice snakes through rain
knowing there is something amiss,
asking H if he is all right.
Don’t worry about it, H says with a grin,
understanding he could choose.
Give us a break… I’m taking a piss…
it’s all I’ve got left to lose.

There’s no doubt about it: from now on
I’m going to win.
something inside is stronger…
growing and striving
I am no longer making a fuss…
or taking a train to the land
where green grass needs mowing
from now on
I’m driving
my own bus.

H continued talking to himself as he walked back down the river, teeth clicking with cold, body starting to shiver.

Morning Has Broken 009
I thought that when a person dies, his whole life flashes before him. Strange as it is to see,
I watch the lives of others flash before me. There’s a first time for everything.
Isn’t that what they say? But they’re wrong about that, too.
Like everything else, it turns out to be the other way round.
There’s not a first time for everything, but
for everything there’s a first time.
About that I’d been so definite.
Full circle. This idea in mind
was not going to be
the first or last

© 2014 OM