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The Critic

When she pressed on her glasses and drew the words near
Their shape and their meaning began to ring clear
The humdrum around her then faded away
And her mind drifted back to an earlier day

Where raucous and ready with small expectations
She grew where her people had raised generations
Her youth and her playtime an innocent phase
So simple compared to the modern malaise

How blissful not knowing, she thought with a tear
From schoolhouse to boreen, from house to the pier
Where with waves washing in and with light fading out
They lay and they listened to sounds all about.

The rustlings and chirpings and roll of the lake
Young limbs in young skin where nothing feels fake.
So swift in its going soon lost in the past
But convinced at the time that forever would last.

Disturbed from her drifting she turns and she breathes,
The hall now seems small and her mind ill at ease.
Some children tear by with ambition for fun,
Ready and restless and waiting to run.

For them a more complex demanding surround,
Abstracted from nature and far from the ground.
In mazes of data and bands of distraction,
Time to themselves is just given a fraction.

So what do you think? asks a voice from her right.
She turns and replies with the speaker in sight.
It’s too sentimental, indulgant at best;
It’s clumsy and sloppy and I’m not impressed.

His face drops a little and taken aback,
He stutters Yes maybe, it really does lack.
But don’t be so worried the lady now grins;
It’s about taking part and not about who wins.

So wise from the world here’s a word to the wise-
Take care with the things that you choose to despise.
For people and moments are passing events,
And soon you will wonder where everything went.

Stumbling and fumbling the young man turns amazed,
And reaches to write down her words in a daze.
But when he looks up there is noone to see,
Only kids racing round him and roaring with glee.

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and there it goes…

And there it goes now again,
Trinkets and snippets,
Whipped up in a windless whippet,
Caught and carried through dreamless air
To a foreign lair.

And here I hold you tight again,
As if today’s embrace could shorten
Tomorrow’s distance and the odds of coming back,
Where dark is dearly held and clearly black.

And in an age I do not know;
But who could put their finger on,
Or be the zeitgeist of-
This exploded view, this swirling shifting rage.

I would like to say I caught,
A glimpse of form in all I saw,
An edge, a purpose, to the order of things,
But I saw naught, my head just rings.

My dreams annoint my day with shadowed balm,
And at the centre churns the central calm.
I copy, paste, and cut myself apart,
I wander, waste, and mute my wounded heart.

You go again where some wind dictates,
And hanging over count the pastries baked.
The guilt I drift in ranges far from this-
The roads from where I lie to where I kiss.

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bump

Closer closer till you burn,
Now there’s no room left to turn…
All or nothing, in or out,
We have no time to throw about.

I guess I’ve been a stupid guy,
To stop and wait and not to try.
I know sometimes it makes me sigh,
As life and fate go tumbling by.

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cast/go

Cast it back,
Cast it out,
Freckled innocence,
Blooming doubt…

*********************************
The present is the presence of past.
Wrap and preserve it since nothing will last?

********************************

If daily we have the same lessons,
And become as the message itself
Absorb and engage all the pith of the page,
And freely grow fat from our wealth.

Then surely there is a real balance,
And surely a place there to rest,
Where distant loud rumbles are voices that grumble,
Where unity comes from the test.

But what is this stress that still rises,
From the base to the edges of things?
And agitates toes and our eyelids that close,
With a drum beat that constantly rings.

Can we then go and hide in our habits,
And forget how the ardent hope stings?
Or mumble some mumblings to blunt it’s mute humming,
And fumble the freedom that sings?

I was once off away in the ether,
But now tied to a solid real post,
Where I can’t quite see how I might see her and be,
Left idly behind as a ghost.

And time is as usual skipping,
As fast as we try to be born,
Just lounging around where the air meets the ground,
And the dead of the night meets the morn.

And you know all too well of the fleeting,
The instants that counted in vain,
Are grasped and held tight for a short evening flight,
Where nothing is ever the same.

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Sky Blue

Work to rule,
A simple fool.
Something crude-
Far too rude.

Sky blue,
Future tell.
Sky blue,
Hope you are well.

Time strapped,
Brain mapped.
Predicted states,
Expensive rates.

Sky blue,
What can I say?
Sky blue,
Some other way

People appear,
People fade.
Shifting gear,
Nothing stays.

Sky blue,
Whatever I do.
Sky blue,
Who really knew?

Chances lost,
Beats drop.
Moments last,
Speeding stop.

Sun shines
In my mind
New life,
Hard to find.

Sky blue,
What will I do?
Sky blue
And what about you?

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Umpilton

Dredge…
Shred first, taste later
The hard-won destruction fakes its toll

Ledge…
Bled first, healthy again,
The softer climates rust the weakly postured

The milk slips over the edge of the bowl

Bits and bobs sieze up and collapse
Litter the verges and byroads
Where they fall like dew,
or like rain,
or like driven snow,
relaxed in the control of
murderous gravity.

But no depravity…
The scale from sensible to serious
Well traversed by guilty soles
Paths worn into quiet patterns
That tell their own stories

Furious…
Perhaps a little anger goes a long way,
Shockwaves radiating at the speed of speech
Passion’s grip a point of no return
Poisoned righteousness burning brightly on.

Then relaxed…
The tide draws its breath
Shores sigh and relax
Cruel hammering suspended, paused
Soft water investigates the flaws

The bowl falls from the table,
A hundred fragments of ceramic and cereal,
Spread out on the tiles,
In random broken piles.

I will brush and mop,
The random collection of abstract shapes,
Entropy shouldering into the kitchen unwelcome
From their chaos find the order of a rubbish bin,
the shattering of an illusion of calm
hurt words of an injured psyche startled
stabbing aimlessly outwards
I will brush and mop and find a new bowl

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Thus ends…

Thus ends the age of exploration
Now Rules of Grammar and stuffy constants constrain
Fixed and steady, RIGID and arbitrary
While whipped on a whippet of wind,
Deserted, rejected, injected and binned,
Age turns the skin inside out
And indoors retreated, energy sapped by drought,
Deflated, negated,
A simple progression fated comes about,
This mortal poison combines,
A mutual perversion politely arrives

But hey,

Was there ever another way?
Was there another road cut into the mountain?
We are mostly space
But quantum freedom is not our own to chase

Gullible gilled and designed for speed,
Gaffed distilled for the life we need…

Arched around the margins,
Angled in the main,
Moving through the darkness
Echoing the same.

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Turlough

winter water levels lough corrib

Turlough

Here comes the flood
The beat of rain in the dark,
Here comes the water,
Streams of pain make their mark.

A shoreline appears,
From the stone come angry waves,
A sinking in tears,
Of moments that nobody saves

The flotsam and leftovers,
Of the lost and the gone,
Are tearing at the souls
Of those that move on

The lake is returning,
Chewing on edges of fields,
They can be mourned,
Sadly in deepness that seals

The Turlough is born,
Again from the summer’s retreat,
The seasons will turn,
But seconds will hammer and beat

The friction and filing
Of the self by the slip
Is scraping the core,
Of the centre we grip

A surface so rough,
Broke up by currents and air,
The thought is enough
To flood the heart with despair

Our world can be dark,
Punctured by few days of sun,
The way can be stark,
These wet roads flow into one.

Sit there and watch
As it swallows the ground in a gale
Kneel now to catch
The sunken reminding detail

The flotsam and leftovers,
Of the lost and the gone,
Are tearing up the souls
Of those that move on

The friction and filing
Of the self by the slip
Is scraping the core,
Of the centre we grip

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Onfeedence

onfeedence

Money in the meter,
Honey in my head
Money in the meter,
Frozen in my bed

Hardly in the moment
Hurry, get ahead, but
Barely any movement,
Somewhere else instead.

And oh the restless guests they are not feeling all the best
They are rattling empty bottles and complaining of the low
Now come across those meanings and get them off your chest
It’s a live live oh in the spotlights of the show

Better off in transit,
Or setting foot in homes
Bitter from the transit,
Living off their loans

Startled by a welcome
Stranger caught off guard
Visiting hours are lonesome
Leaving always hard.

But why the hanging face when all the features are in place?
Why cut the growing space with guilty thoughts that dull the glow
Falling back on extracts- someone else’s propped up days
Still a live live oh in the spotlights of the show

Money in the meter
Counting down and out
Time spent in ether
Throwing weight about

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traction fragments

Are you going in?
Are you going in?

traction fragments

Good grip in these tires.
Good shit, as far as it goes.
But I cannot keep it lit.
A cliche that won’t hurt a bit.

Easy now, in it goes.
A spot of blood on your clothes.
No need to bother,
It’ll sort itself out.
Take care of no other,
No one else is about.

It’s just you and your nature,
And the battle between the slits,
An instant extended,
A hole made of bits.

So take the whole damn insect army,
Take the pain from its point,
Clean away what was hurting,
Break the bones at the joint.

Toss the lifelines overboard,
Too frayed and old to save us,
We must express our contempt for the here and now,
By becoming redundant somehow.

Floodwaters already overhead,
Stink of drowned rats sinking down below.
Cover the hatch with plastic figurines,
Cover the hatch and lets go…

Now I never called it a moral issue,
It’s my life and I steer clear of the ethical.
But suppose I was in the mix,
I would never get out alive with these tricks.

No, I would prefer to wait here and mull inside.
Over things that have happened and have not,
Let shards of broken moments blow smoke into my full eyes,
Let all that’s passing join what I forgot.

The convoy may or may not find us,
Passing ocean liners are too busy looking after each other,
We can wander in the caked sand until we go mad with hunger,
Or we could just not bother.

So may every cheap sentence end with an exclamation mark,
May every cheap trick fill us with pride.
The power and the glory in the brute energy of letting go,
Every other shot fired wildly wide.

Here comes the winter and its wares,
A noisy ruckus on the damp road,
Emerging from the green trees pulling a carpet of torn leaves,
Open mouthed greedy gaping grin hanging loose.
Eyes aloft at the sky, drinking in the colour and space.
I had something to say,
But forgot as it passed,
Swallowed the word and let it stick in my throat.
Could not speak, try as I might,
Half ideas banked in a snowed-in mind in the decaying light,
Entropy or circles?
A line or a loop?
Caught between the two sames,
I pick at the bloodstains,
Little pieces of scab under my fingernails.

Cannot keep it lit,
But it won’t hurt a bit-
Not where we’re going,
If only we could move…