Thirty-fifth floor’s; tear-
drops. Tokyo man, tumbles; down.
Same Payne. Diff’rent names.

Thirty-fifth floor’s; tear-
drops. Tokyo man, tumbles; down.
Same Payne. Diff’rent names.

In, an anaemic, ashen, Midlands’ city.
Iron skies, are filled, with;
grey buildings, grey faces, grey office(r)s.
Bluely lit.
Grey tarmacadam, is, trampled,
by, restricted, infantile strides. Chased,
by, those porcine protractors,
with truncheons.
Peel-ing away, at, schoolchildren’s,
stunted development. Stunned, flinching youth, is;
tasered, arrested, killed – inside.
On a street, called; Sorrow
Road…
…short-lived, and, long-gone,
stroll, hand-in-hand; synonymous.
None, are reimbursed, for, their fugitive time invested. Except, Charon.
His payment; a poor man’s shilling,
atop, each eyelid.
Wreaths of lies, are laid,
on, a graveside curb of pity.
Enthusiastically.
Alongside, the strewn, bygone,
neglected:
wishes, dreams, and, promises…
…of, a, faux delighted,
blue skied, rosy nighted; tomorrow.
Which, became,
our; missed, and, leaden today.
Our; misled, kidnapped, unquickening fate.
Our; hopeless, picketed, shade of Pale, beyond.

Polyglottal “love”; lit funeral pyres.
Burning; from friction caused.
By; mollycoddled hugs.
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.
Polyglottal “love”; lit funeral pyres.
Burning; from friction caused.
By; mollycoddled hugs.
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.
Polyglottal “love”; lit funeral pyres.
Burning; from friction caused.
By; mollycoddled hugs.

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…
‐———————————————————————
Glossary of Irish words in the context of this poem:
1 Pósadh – Marriage
2) Dothuigthe – Unintelligible, abstruse, enigmatic.
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.
19) Buidéal fuisce – Whiskey bottle.
20) Rothar – Bicycle, bike.
21) Sráidbhaile – Village.

Make me work,
for another man’s,
dream.
Dreaming,
of fulfillment,
whilst numb,
and, insentient.
Make me bleed,
sweat, toil, cry,
and, scream.
Screaming,
into a pillow,
stuffed,
with emptiness.
Make me want,
for my needs,
and, need,
for my wants.
Wanting nothing,
but enough dough,
to knead.
Make me insatiably,
thirst for all,
knowledgeable,
fonts.
Fonting illiterate words,
that are unable,
to read.
Break me; into edible smithereens;
to feed your ego.
Break me; into smithereens.
Break me.

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…
and, on…
and, on…

he’s sewn up,
sore.
and, missing;
something?
some things?
or,
somewhere?
missing.
missing; somewhat?
or, is it, someone?
a jigsaw piece;
minus it’s edge.
a garden hose;
but no hedge.
a windowsill;
without a ledge.
this fascination
with forbidden lust
is an –
amputee –
both arms;
taken;
forsaken.
and, with that being said,
he’s; still;
besotted
with a pair of gloves.
but, nevertheless,
trustily supported
by two good legs.
epiphany;
disregarded.
for, what one lacks,
sore,
one doesn’t
necessarily know
not to need
in these
matters of amour.
and,
regrettably,
one should never
overlook;
what’s beneath,
when able
to take a ride
on
romance’s
intimate see-saw.
nor,
turn their backs
on
true love’s
magnificent stampede;
in boots;
inconsiderately worn.

pious, powered rage;
religion and politics.
Anaesthetised; us.

none slept forward
too little sleep back
the setting sun
clocking off early at 4pm
chuckling to himself
knowing the plight
of the insomniac
a bed in the hand
isn’t worth two hours of hush
darkness tarries
inside and outside
from cigarette marred lung
to disbe-lief falling from trees
mourning the loss of lush
don’t judge a bed
by it’s cover
laying sombrely
lower than any shadow
cast out into the wilderness
surrounded by every dream’s
jilted lover
the snore
the merrier
envious glares
at those yawning, stretching cunts
whilst keeping copper coins
on my eyelids – forced shut
for the stygian ferrier
you don’t snooze
you are a loser.
