Friday, 25 November 2011

A Man Washed Up On The Liffey

On Thanksgiving
A man was pulled from the river
He had floated for days
Today he washed up on the bank
My friend and I
We jumped off our bus to watch
Our voices high pitched and excited
We laughed till the firemen turned the man
His limbs were static
Turned like something inhuman, rigid
We were quiet then
As he was hoisted up
The ambulance did not blare the siren
We walked home then
I tried to empathise but I couldn't
I didn't care, I can't care
My friend talked about the man's family
My family are unimportant
So in my death, they will be thought of
Given sorrows and kindness
If that man had no family
Is he worthless?
All that has changed for me
As I stood with the gawkers and watched
And did not avert my eyes
I learned 
That I am as bad as the rest of you.

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse

Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse.

Lara was afraid. Her parents had been torn out of the car as they had looked for the keys. They had left her on the balcony and told her to be very quiet. They’d put their fingers on their lips, shushhh. She understood but she was screaming and crying now. It was her birthday, they said they’d go to the toy shop for a present. But the monsters from the television had gotten them. Her mothers face was turned towards Lara, Her Mother got up and walked in a strange way. Lara ran out the front door and into her mothers arms, her Mommy was alive, her Mommy was alive.

He was curled up in a tent. Next to his beautiful girlfriend. Or at least he thought she was beautiful. His parents didn’t, not with her dreadlocks and her veganism. She wanted to save the planet. They’d been camped out on the land for days. They’d left the city when they’d heard about the infection. She’d wanted to go here anyway, he folded his body into hers. He heard a twig snap outside, a deer? Fox? He pulled opened the front of the tent. That’s when the screaming started.

Julia had been married twenty five years. How she hated him now. He was snoring fitfully on the sofa. She walked out into the garden with her gardening tools. “Might as well pull up some vegetables for the stew”. She put on the radio and perched it on the ledge. The infection had reached her town. She stood up and smiled, reaching down she picked up the hedge trimmers and walked towards her sleeping husband.

Celebrity Zombie!

As she lay on her chaise langue, her hand reached out and fingered the crystal glass in which her Bloody Mary was stagnating. Her bodyguard entered, he was tall and dressed in glittery black sequins. “Gaga, the undead have risen”. She took that as her cue to get up and tiptoe over in her white heels, “They will not come for me, for I am their Queen”. Her body guard leant back, puzzled “They don’t care if you’re famous Gaga, they will eat you”. She scoffed at this and tossed her crystal glass into the fire. “Invite them in and we will see”. The body guard shook his head and took a step back, then turning to run towards the door, she heard it slam as he exited. Then heard his screams as he was devoured. She walked over to the door and pulled it open, “Come, come meet your Queen”.

Masochism is An Art

I knife stripe my upper arm. Suddenly it is engulfed in pain. The dewdrops fall on the white carpet. Masking it in my peace. His eyes wander to my arm, he is fascinated, transfixed by the spectacle. I pull at the blade again, across the gash. My back bends and I can hear  the birds, my pain becomes one with the world. I feel connected, solidarity breached by the open expanses beyond. The pleasure melds so readily with the inner struggles I have always faced. I feel reborn every time the steel of the butchers knife connects with my arm. I feel my roots stretch out, I am whole. His hand reaches out and fingers the scars that criss-cross my legs, my back, my neck. My soft, feminine skin marred with the beauty that comes from the knife, the razor blade. Garden tools and kitchen implements became different to me. I see them as methods for new scars, new beauty. They are an extension of my arm, a bringer of pleasure in the pain.

A girl I knew when I was fifteen, saw the scars and her eyes lit up. She was twisted and dark inside. Her emotions were one, That emotion was a longing for self satisfaction. She took a blade and swiped me, uncaring, she did not map my veins like I did. She hurt me and her back arched too. When the blood wouldn’t stop, I would take out my kit and sew. Like a rag doll I would piece myself back together as she watched with grey, eagle eyes. Her black hair, short and jagged. She was beautiful, she smoked her cigarette in its long holder and did not care for the stares she got. Jaws would be broken if people spoke out and they knew from her sharpness. They kept their mouths closed. They watched as she pulled me into a shop by my collar. No words were spoken, quiet flooded the scene. Old women would walk to the other side of the road as we approached. They knew something ungodly was afoot but their vocabulary did not stretch to accommodate such things. She ordered me and I followed her words like religion. “Sit” “Stay”, I did not falter. I knew her for what she was and I knew the consequences for inaction. She would test my endurance, tie me into a ball with rope and then leave me in the wardrobe, go about her business, perhaps go to sleep. She’d punish me with boredom because pain was not an option. I left her and the guilt nearly drove me insane, she did not care. Her plaything was gone but she would find another, someone who would stay indefinitely and sometimes I wonder if they do a better job than me and I wince with the competition for it. I want to compete. I want to see other boys and girls like me and be the best. Break the boundaries of what they can take and rise above.

Now I am alone. I have had new  owners but they are not enough. I don’t respect them because I cannot bring myself too. They are weak, uninventive. They have enough imagination for two rounds with me, maybe three and then they fall into old patterns. “Do what I say or I’ll… I’ll …”. I laugh at them and they hit me and with that they break my focus. I laugh at them and I walk out. Some claim they can master me, then they fail. They want to please me in their dominance, they don’t want to please themselves. I should be their object but instead they cuddle into me at night so I can hear their heartbeat. They tell me they love me. That is not what I want. I want the quiet, cold of anger of them. I want them to teach me how to be pure. I want them to deny me my own needs to fuel their own desires. I don’t want them to love me, tell me I’m beautiful. I want them to use me. But they do not. That is their greatest failing.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Various Poems


Where are you, my betrayer?
Is it the glint in my eye?
My hand gestures at dawn
My demenour in blonde
Are my broken glances
What they noticed?
Ode to my betrayer
You have painted me colourful
Let me be ordinary for once
Show me my solstice quietly
I flick my wrists
Do you not know how to whisper?
Dream quietly and be humble
Or I'll cut my eyelashes off
Break my mind against your castle

My betrayer is a liar
He uses my words against me
Spits at me as I step
There is a horrible thing within
But sometimes he is gracious
Lets pretty men open doors for me
The gruff Sirs turning into flowery Misses
And when the night comes
He uses my voice against me
Makes me scream an octave higher
He chose how I sing
The  notes I hit, he plucked the strings
But if he does not stop
My betrayer will see
How nasty I  am
When I pursue a flawed masculinity

Denim Jeans

I want to see how your bones knit together
I want to name your veins
After greek gods till there are no more
Please, make me scream so loud
The neighbours are horrified

I want to see jealousy as I take you on parade
I long to cover you in blood
I want to see you red and glistening
Let me see your nightmares
So I can be in your dreams

I want to sew our souls together
So we will be one
Then we can take the bastards down with us
I want to feel the rush of pain
As we burst into flames
And tumble forever downward

The March Of Toads

We march like toads
Our fingers glitter with icing
Our worries behind us
The ones I forget I own
My teeth are grazing
On our despicable nature

Your lips are wet
Unpleasant in their anxiety
My lips like two half moons
Are trying to lead us down the path
Where we will not destroy ourselves
We slouch together, tangled
Unimportant limbs are weightless
Meshing and crunching of bones
All of our words have been spoken
So let us not speak at all


The streets I name Verona
Although they are not fair
The stretch to a leather infinity
Brick by brick, we will rebuild

It houses many a Tybalt
The skin tight jeans of the Juliet
Romeo drinks his sorrows often

I perhaps am Mercutio
I tell tales in my insanity
Tempered under my breath
I see my ending days
And I will go down laughing
Call upon the plague
On all your houses
On all your houses

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Ugly Words

You are pathetic
As you fumble with your purse
Clasp a cigarette in shivering hands
You tell me your hardships
As if you were in famine
Constant pain you call it
That’s your life to you
I take a cigarette from the box
The stains on us match
You open your mouth to speak
But instead you groan
Fifty years my senior
No further along than I
But you are the only one
The only one who loves me
So I don’t show my doubt
My disbelief or sorrow
I smile and drink from your flask

Tuesday, 8 November 2011


I sit down on the pavement
The sidewalk of chewing gum
Dirty footprints of passers by
The plastic bags floating like tumbleweeds

There is a girl in neon pink
With a child screeching but ignored
The father blows smoke into the carriage
The fun and frolics of young love.

A man paces past me
Bag full of the cheapest cider
Talking incessesently on the phone
So common to my poor rural ears

A poet in a long coat lights a pipe
Grey hair in turbulant freefall
Finds some way into the shelter
His failure evident in every step he takes

Everyone huddles like sheep in the irish way
One girl is nestled away in hiding
The young ones have heard tales of her thievery
The stealing of money,identity,culture and space

The crows swoop past me as I write
Boarded up shop windows, my backdrop
My bus pulls up polka dotted in dust
Some get off, others stream in like cattle
I walk over and hand a man my coins
Masquerading as a child once again
My ticket discarded by my seat
I am approaching my judgement day
As I creep towards my future.

Monday, 7 November 2011


Some kid on Yahoo Answers wanted someone to write a poem for her about Diversity.
This is what I wrote.

Sometimes people are black
And when they're not they're white
Or actually they can also be inbetween
But everyone is an individual
Race is one of those things people think of first
But you can be diverse in gender
Or sexual orientation
I've got a diverse taste in pasta
Diversity also won Britains Got Talent
It was awesome when that kid
Jumped out of that bag
It was like "Holy ****"
Someone put a kid in a bag

Three Poems

For The New Muse

All of you have been the same
If I brought you together
To break out of your own skin
A river of death would begin
But this new one is the worst of all
Life hasn't broken you
But the world has been kind
It has been soft and gentle
Left no cracks and gave you everything
Warm meals, clean clothes, freedom.
Afraid to be judged as you are
But you cannot judge those who've never fallen
Childlike in their optimism so they be
The continual pessimist in me, drawn towards
you moving checkers the wrong way
When I have difficulty looking after myself
How can I make sure your innocence is kept?
The adult world is a stalemate
We can not bend it to our will 

King of Hearts

My heart is broken
Not by love but by choices
It tilts to Gods angle
Coughs up organs and stars
So don't expect a place in it
I live on lust and exhaust fumes
Fifth,sixth and twelfth chances

I like the feeling of sorrow on my breath
I'm a stealer of kisses
Remember my moonlit brush strokes
Across your skin
Maybe that is enough for you?
But maybe more for me?
Feed me and pay me in kisses.
I will leave with madness on my tongue.


The matter of urgency
Our solitude and lack there of
I asked the boys of the green fields
Vodka bottles tipped near the swings
They answered in lead obscenities
Mixed in with their short sightedness
Plath, Lawrence, Bukowski?
Where are your Gods?
When they left did you paint them in gold?
This matter does not matter
The truth has lied to the poet often
Where are the children who've eaten the corn?
Where is my wolf biting my wooden door?
I will cover you all in blood
Love is such a timid thing in this

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Documentary On Venezuela

I do not know you, Little One
But I’ve seen you in the graves
Creeping with my ancestors
Feeding on the beetles on the stones
You call me in the shadows
In the dawn of my indifference
To your plight in the favalas
Little beedy eyes bright in the dark

Saving one
Replaced by another

I can not give you all beds
So I will ignore your plights
And drink my scalding tea
Safe in the knowledge
That I
Will not become one of you