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…
Beyond yourself, beyond the Earth, beyond the stars, beyond the galaxies, beyond the universe.
Viewing, beyond; what is material, beyond; what is imagined, beyond; the conscious and subconscious.
Viewing, beyond; what, is and what, is not. Viewing, beyond; existence.
In doing so, you will find, that; life as we know it, really, is, all relative. Relative to all. Relative to all matter, and, all, that matters. Relative to all that is spawned, whether as a thought, or, as a conscious being. Relative to the Creator, to all that has been created, to all that has the capability to create and to the creative processes, which allow for creativity to exist.
Imagine; an incessant, indefinite, prismal hall, adorned and inlaid with, ‘the mirrors of creation’. Each and every looking glass projecting reflections from opposite sides. Deeper and deeper, within, the triangular facing juxtapositions, for all of time and space and realities. Immemorial. All introspections, conjured and displayed, extrospectively, for infinity, like reflective echoes.
Reflective echoes which sense and show; time, space and reality, in every way. Every, single, mind-churning creation. Every originitavely, conceivable and inconceivable, manifestation of life and death, being thrown back, over and over and over again. Reflective echoes prone to making continual, mirrored changes of every variety. Changes that alter the course of existence, instinctively and perpetually. Reflective echoes, that exist to exhibit every crotchet and quaver of existence. Exist to practice, orchestrate and finely tune the never-ending nuances, of; survival and extinction, safety and danger, the procreated and the departed, reasoning and understanding, order and chaos, creation and destruction. Birthing and deceasing; lyrics, ballads and dithyrambs, of hatched esse, based on, anything, everything, and, nothing; for aye.
Please, please, throughout your life, do not sweat the small stuff.
Because in reality; you are the smallest of stuff, sweating, profusely. Picture this, in your mind…
you; are, just… a biological cell.
A cell, hitching a ride, atop a bead of human sweat, that is the equivalent of our planet, the Earth. A bead of Earthly sweat, ensconced, rolling, and orbiting, within the fold of a galactic, rotating human neck. That, human neck, is, The Milky Way. A galactic neck, affixed, within, a human body, that is, this, solitary universe.
Now, relatively speaking, imagine a huge crowd of human bodies (which in this case are being used as a metaphor for multiple universes) running, alongside one another. Human bodies, continously sprinting, amongst a stampeding mass, of; infinitely sprinting human bodies. A mass of infinitely sprinting human bodies, trivially competing, without any purpose other than to simply exist and run, in a never ending race without a finish line, on an undisclosed planet, in an undisclosed galaxy, in an undisclosed universe. That is the multiverse. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating and changing. Una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum…
Now, remember the biological cell?
That is how small you are in the grand scheme of everything. So, is it really worth, worrying, about, anything, at all?
The answer is; No.
Foolishly, if you feel that you must worry about anything, then, realistically, you should be worrying about everything. Why worry, when you could be admiring the astounding probability that you are even alive and reading, this, right now?
Realistically, the fact that you are living and bearing the opportunity to frivolously exist, is, amazing in it’s; impossibility. It is a miracle; in, and of, itself. The treasured miracle of existence has an infinite probability of equally not existing. So, treasure it dearly and enjoy it while you can clutch it. There are so many creations that never get the chance to experience, cherish and possess existence.
That makes you impossibly lucky!
Enjoy the miracle that is your life, please. Adore it, in its uniquity, for as long as you can.
Incredibly, your energy, your life-force, your soul, can never be destroyed, now that, you, have been; created. Because, existing, is, an imagined notion, within a universe’s dream, that springs to life, for a moment, of; impossibility.
You, are; a universe’s subconscious thought; imagined, cast and realised.
You leave creative markings on the stardust, that you; engage, embody and exude. Your conceptual, existential, starly shapes are never forgotten by the autogenic, empyrean energy, that you; hold, mould and enfold.
You will, always live on, within the folklore of the cosmos, as, an unforgettable, starry story. A cosmological fable; remembered, reworded and re-personified. And, so, within the realms of imagined existence, brought to life, your energy will remain, lived out amongst the stars, forever.
A frozen, and, gelid, atmosphere, of the; unruly, and, the unruled. Immovable fixtures; unpondered, unthought of. And, without-sound; asleep.
Shifting backwards, in orbit, twirling, as though; an iced-dream. In the, pitch-black, twilight. Above; unabashed hues of blue. Before; a bitterly-vexed, desolate, and, lonely; ice- mistress.
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