Most of the time, I’m lost. Most of the time, unfound. Most of the time; I’m wishing, well, to be 100 leagues, underground.
Most of the time, I’m stuck, thinking. Most of the time, vanished, sinking. Most of the time; to depths deeper, than the Mariana Trench, where light has never, been seen, blinking.
Most of the time, unweeping, hurts. Most of the time, trapped, inside. Most of the time; I feel ashamed, and, upset, that, oceanic tears, will never make, a risen tide, of these long, deserted eyes.
Most of the time, pain flirts. Most of the time, teased, all over. Most of the time; on dates, unmedicated, in dated, conversations, on dates, wide-awake, and, inundated, when sober.
Most of the time, I dream of freedom. Most of the time, I dream of peace. Most of the time; the dove I am, flies high, away, to escape the closed-eyed, cag-ed fact, that, eternal slumber’s, reaping, will be, when I’m, finally, released.
There’s a river between us. Because of Cromwellian features.
Not the Trent, nor, the Shannon, but, the Styx.
There’s an ocean between us. Because of how far Cromwell, still, reaches.
Not the Pacific, or, even, the Atlantic, but, the briny depths of my dreams.
This insatiable thirst for the water of life. This famishment for the salmon of knowledge. This yearning, and, longing to know the refugee struggle. Of, an, escaped to Mapled land, fleeing brother.
Setting out; for big-bangs, black-holes, disordered-chaos, quantum-physics. All totally, misunderstood, and, yet, still, moved. Yearning. For, everything creative.
Swallowing all; without: coming up for air, without: a cap-opener, and, all the while, closed off, stuck. With: a trauma-crafted-cork; occluding the bottle inside.
The worst. Kind of mortal behaviour; uninhibited, unruly, grief-stricken; self-destruction. Whilst, wantonly wearing, His, exquisite Sunday Best.
Setting out; to, stupidly, and, savagely turn, sense, into, a wartorn refugee. And, build; a bloodthirsty barbarian, from; agony, elation and antithesis. Amongst, mental-asylum-seeking, natives.
Swallowing all; without: a barside prayer, without: a Holy communion, without: a body or bloods, to eat, drink, or, speak of. And, instead, with: six deadly sins and ever-present pride.
Flowers wilted, fiancé(e)s were jilted, the kind, and, foolhardy were guilted, by, His, self-eulogy, His final-words. Spoken, in the lost languages, of; sorrow… …at long last, finally, laid to rest, with: the evening-sunset; on his breath.
Adolf Hitler hated Jews. And, I imagine, Barbara Windsor, hated Muslims too. I don’t know why… Mind you, Peggy, off Eastenders, had the same haircut as my Nana. And, she hated anyone foreign. Isn’t it amazing, what stereotypes can do.
As the sgriob climbed up, my thirsty, croiméal bristles, I was tickled, and, teased, by the uisce bheatha.
Fuisce gazed, pining, for what was yet to be. Gingerly, it beckoned, first, my cerulean súile, then, my scarlet beola.
Orange and blue, plumed, transfixed, like a; rabharta.
Generously I supped, and, slurped. Whilst my spirits, were lifted. Entering and exiting, betwixt, my séanas.
If my súile are the windows to my soul, then, my séanas is the drawbridge.
Several hours went by… filled with raucous laughter, craic and gargle. Plus, the giving and receiving, of tall, meandering, unruly scéilíní.
The world was put, well, to rights. Agus, I also recall a grinn jóc, about hearing a zombiefied, Mick McCarthy, caoin, by, Roy Keane’s, graveside.
Aduantas, go leor. As I rose, in the camhanaich, beside, an empty bottle of Jameson’s. The bottle as green as my gills; my fate, had been decided, with every glass, poured, and, d’ól.
My God, my geis!! Some say, the devil is dead, and buried in Killarney. I say, he’s waiting for you, at the bottom of a buidéal fuisce.
Now, I’m due to be married, to the rothar sráidbhaile, in about a week, or, so…
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Glossary of Irish words in the context of this poem:
3) Sgriob – The itchiness of the upper lip just before taking a sip of whisky.
4) Croiméal – Moustache.
5) Uisce bheatha, Fuisce, – Whiskey.
6) Súile – Eyes.
7) Beola – Lips.
8) Rabharta – A spring tide.
9) Séanas – A gap between the upper front teeth.
10) Scéilíní, singular Scéal – Stories, story.
11) Agus – And.
12) Grinn jóc – Funny joke.
13) Caoin – Keen – a wailing cry, usually, at a funeral.
14) Aduantas – The angst that comes with being in an unfamiliar place and among unfamiliar people (especially following a night of heavy drinking, in this case).
15) Go leor – Galore – To sufficiency, In abundance.
16) Camhanaich – Half-light; early morning twilight.
17) D’ól – Drank.
18) Geis – Taboo, prohibition; injunction; something you do (or don’t do), upon which your life depends, or which defines your life.
My patchwork, blanketed tapestry, of maudlin melancholy, is; uncomfortably trapped; tightly, tucked in, and, staring, at the inside, of my outside, or, is it, the outside of my inside?
Pricking the panes, of my soul-destroying, eyelids.
While praying, for the luminescent, Phoenixed beacon, of level-headed, neutrality, to become incandescent, burning brightly, in the present, switched on.
Memories make my maudlin melancholy, weave evocation, with nostalgic fabrics, spinning universal yarns, of Seanchaí stature; all past; pastimes, pasta dishes, pastures new discovered, pastures not so green on the otherside experienced, pastiched poems, pastilled aromas, pastille sweets, pastels of watercoloured lives.
All, varying in emotion, strength, sentiment, shape and sizes.
Each and every thread, intertwined and sewn, into my self, spirit and soul. Elucidating knotted, uncompromising needle, and thread, bunched, fibers untangled, and impressively unfurled, then eternally, stretched, and stitched on…
poorman'sdreams 