day in day out

I crumble.
Like Carrot cake
under a spoon,
everytime she
catches me,
Look away.

Black bog turf of Ireland
Hug me close
And clothe me in rolling blankets
Of thicket and fairy ring,
Bind me with thick tongue
And calloused hand filled
With deep regret and hope.
A soft violence dear to me,
Now returning.

High,
Aloft in the hills
They watch for intruders
On a land in which
They themselves are strangers,

Washing lines spin
On the wind like
Tops from their childhood,
Striking fear now
As it glints steel in their peripheral,

Empty roads, ditches
Bustle with harsh potential
As they pass
Stalking their every step,
Nightime stumblings
Promising Molotov distasters,

Aloft in the hills
They watch for intruders
On a land in which
They themselves are strangers,

Every eye they meet shields
A stabbing anger
Something they didn’t sign up to.
19, unemployed,
all they had was health and an ability
to hold their own in the streets,
natural progression from the movies to the jungles.
This isn’t holywood,
As hidden prostate in a childs sandpit
They wait for trouble
When they least expect it.

Freckles in the morning,
wrinkle on her nose
and greet me smiling
as I tickle her toes.
‘Hello toes’, I say.
As her freckles
wrinkle from her nose
to her toes,
underneath those
warm bedclothes.

Frosted glass
greets my hand
as it explores,
stopping it dead
with a chill.

It creeps back
into my sleeve
and waits for summertime.
When it’s safe
to explore
again.

My eyes are shut
Like an air tight door
On a rusty mothership
Orbiting earth
One last time.

But, I can see shapes
Calling out to me
Like drowning souls
Cold in the arctic ocean
My ears are plugged closed
Like an aquarium container
holding the last humpback whale
able to mate.

But, I can hear the window blind
Tapping on the glass
Like a dimpled drummer boy
On his way to battle.
My feet are curled up
Like the eyelashes on a girl
I saw in a magazine.
Still posing for the camera

But, I can feel the icy touch
Of the arctic submerging
Me in dreams.

Emotionally numb.
I stare back at their faces,
anticipating
a flicker of recognition
I can't give
cause I'm dogtired sober
and their just drunk
and I refuse to find
anything or anyone funny
at 2:30am
on a Sunday morning
standing behind
the bar.

On the top stair
Hidden in the folds
Linen dark
Behind the brass
Overcoated
In warmth
I waited
For the creak,
Accidental fumbings,
Rummaging
And silent discovery.

The creak never came.

It's born on you
like a hairlip.
It pulls you out from slumber
with possibilities and fills you
with stars,
dragging you into the sky with them
sparkling black.

It itches behind your eyeballs
when you wish to forget,
it's awake as you sleep,
haunting with insanity when sanity
is what is needed.

Every image cries for description
wether it has one or not.
You can't dull it or break it off
in a heavy fall, you can't drown it
in a bath of cool water or scrape
it from your skin.

It's on you,
Born,
like a hairlip, a bruise inside
that grows and shrinks
with every mood but it never leaves
not until you leave.

It's art
for life.

We weren't british or bulls or dogs
but we loved the game,

Lunchtime, John 'soupy' campbell
clanged the heavy masters bell
by the masters clock,
signalling us to break-neck our sandwiches
in one bite,
leaving the crusts to the crows circling overhead.

I was small, skinny and quick.
So, I cut through the podgy tackles
like a whippet at a hunt.
But, I never finished first,
always gang-banged by the all but few,
while John 'soupy' Campbell lorded through.
He could draw transformers

Blinking like an exit
sign above a pub doorway,
She held a love for him.
But like the sign
She wouldn’t be noticed
Till time was called.

Swarming streets intertwine
Like veins,
Blue from cold,
Wrapped in leather belt
As she pleads
Money to her ragged palm
With a diamond smile,
Sunken in the face
Of a street centurion.

Flavours bursting in my eyes,
I can taste the sky,
All smokey bacon, beer soaked and
damp squibs of promises long since gambled.
Deep in the snug of a Dublin pub.

Everyday I'm going to add a poem. Some you may have seen, others you may not, but gradually it will build up to be quite a colection; if I keep remembering that is.

Ruairi