My friend, Amy, asked for a Haiku, including the words Lie and Truth. I am a complete novice at all forms of poetry, but I decided to give this a go. I have no idea whether I achieved the ends required of this particular form, but I can say that I tried. Any hints or comments would be greatly accepted.
True lie.
lie deep virgin snow
without death can there be life
spring brings truth and light.
Tuesday 29 September 2015
Sunday 13 September 2015
Deluge
Deluge
The storm arrived from nowhere, stifling the killing summer night.
The huge pregnant drops beat a tattoo on the slates above my head, rising me
from a restless sleep. The sweat, which clung to my body, was soothed by the
cooling touch of the deluge. I woke her with a touch and suggested an adventure.
We
walked the midnight road in only our underwear, until the scent of pine trees
hung heavy in our nostrils. Unseen, unknown, we made love under the trees,
while rain cloaked our naked flesh. Droplets of heaven, warmed by the summer
air, baptized our union, and made us one.
888
She seemed to have no issue forgetting the majesty of that
night. Yes, I had done wrong, yes, I had been foolish, but had I ever turned my
back on her. No, not ever, well not really. One tiny slip and she threw me to
the side and moved on without a second thought. Oh, she had cried, she made all the
right noises, but she still left me.
Night is not my friend, sleep eludes me, dreams
plague me and worry encases me. On the worst of them, I imagine all the things
she is doing with men that are not me. The carefree cackles of mirth in moments
of abandon. I remember every crease of her skin and imagine those folds being massaged
by strange fingers, fingers belonging to another.
Tonight I was woken by thunderous rain, cascading on the
roof of my flat. I rub the sleep from my eyes and the first thing I think of is
her, and the night we shared. Tonight is cold and the storm is full of ice and
bile. I dress quickly, inviting the sting of the storm, I deserve its wrath. I
walk the streets, the rain soaking me to the skin, my destination clear. I move
in and out of the halos of street lamps, until I'm standing in the alley at
the back of her apartment complex.
Hours I stand there, in the driving rain, in the shadows of
a wall, watching her darkened window. I imagine her smell, the smell I delighted
in, as I held close to her naked back. I imagine the tickle of the water
running down my face is the tickle of her hair, waking me in the middle of the
night. I'd nearly exhausted the depths of my memory, when the window springs alive with light.
I checked my watch and it was nearly four. FOUR!
I watch as the shadows dance a tango across the closed
curtains. Entwining and separating, again and again, until at last the window goes
dark. I muffle a scream by biting my arm and gazing into the falling rain. I
allow the drops to pound my open eyes, washing away the tears flooding from my
pain. Rage invades my veins, and every ounce of my being quakes with the need,
the need for vengeance. I glare at the darkened window and imagine what they
are doing, I imagine what I might do, to both of them. I wash in the evil of
those thoughts until I remember, I made this happen.
Tears of sorrow and tears of pity, mix with the rain
on my face as I turn for home. I look into a street light and a black and white rainbow appears. That’s my life, now and forever, colorless.
Thursday 10 September 2015
Five Little Fingers
Five little fingers, tiny and pink, slowly open then close.
They search blindly for something to grasp in this world, so strange and so
new. Five tiny fingers, circle my thumb, holding tight to the one thing they
will always count on, me.
Five little fingers, never happy until they are ripping pots
from cupboards or struggling to fit into electrical outlets. Fingers that can
change any man-made substance into a gooey mess, at the blink of an eye. Five
tiny digits, searching for anything valuable or dangerous, always stopping my
heart for a second.
Five little fingers, that stroke my face while whispering ‘I
love you’ in my ear. Five tiny fingers, balled into a fist, beating a tantrum
on a supermarket floor, as an alien voice screams, ‘I HATE YOU!’ Both of which
made me cry.
Five tiny fingers, addicted to making snowmen, who howl in
protest when I encase them in knitted wool gloves.
Now, those pink gloves are stained dull by a thousand
adventures. The cocooning strands of warming fleece, fending off the evils of
the world. A glove that lies innocent and alone. I bend to pick it up. I stroke
a grass stain, remembering the laughter that ensued at its creation. I pinched
the delicate materiel and feel the stitching give under the pressure of my
touch. A glove should never be alone, it’s made for a partner. Alone, a pink
glove, can be an abomination.
Five little fingers, never to play the piano, or swim in a
pool, or hold hands with a boy, or to be gripped in the midst of a tango. Five
little fingers, destroyed by the hate that stains the hearts of men.
I sniff the glove hoping to smell her still, but all I can
smell is smoke, explosive residue, and death. I look around at a wasteland of shattered
buildings, and twisted metal. All color is bleached from the world, from my
life, save for this tiny speck of rose. How could a single pink glove survive
perfectly, while the five little fingers, which had fitted so snugly inside,
died?
Saturday 15 August 2015
Unclean
In times past lepers had to peel a bell and cry, "unclean, unclean," as they moved among the unsuspecting throng of people inhabiting medieval citadels. They were tainted beyond saving, they were cursed. I wonder what
terrible things they did to draw such retribution upon themselves.
It's was a sickness you say, nothing more than a sickness.
Those people were not cursed...just infected.
Well, cursed or infected, it matters little, because I am afflicted just like they were.
I walk the streets as those miserable souls did except I
wear a Savil Row suit where they wore filth encrusted rags. They jingled their
tiny bells...all that jingles when I walk is the coin in my pocket. They were
horribly disfigured, but those who gaze upon my face feel nothing but envy.
All around me city workers strut their stuff, feeling
invincible, deluding themselves that nothing can touch them. The arrogance of them. They crush people’s dreams...make money from
disaster....rise high on an ocean of shit. People...they're all cursed, infected, like it or not.
Yes, I'm like them in every way. I won't even try and
deny it. In every way but one, I know I'm doomed.
I walk these streets knowing it’s only a matter of time
before the first lesions appear on my perfect skin, before I lose the feeling
in my hands, before my nose drops from my face, because like the lepers of old,
I am unclean. My sin is survival. I got behind the
wheel of a car, pissed. My friends...my brothers... by my side. Only I made it out
alive.
Suspended sentence, said the judge, but that didn't matter.
My sentence wasn't suspended, nor commuted, but forever dangling over me, and I
deserved every second of it.
I glance sideways and see three shadows, cast on a building wall. That's the one good thing about all this, I'm never alone.
I glance sideways and see three shadows, cast on a building wall. That's the one good thing about all this, I'm never alone.
Soon guys, soon, I will be joining you soon.
Tuesday 11 August 2015
Sunday 9 August 2015
Teddy Bear's Picnic
If you go down to the
woods today, you better go in disguise. If you go down to the woods today, you’re
in for a big surprise.
Never a truer word was spoken. I like the dark, I spend most of my life in the dark, so it
will come as no surprise that I’m quite comfortable in the dark. Working late
most nights, my two dogs often have to wait well into the wee hours,
for a walk. As it happens, where this photo is taken is right at the end of Ballyseedy Wood, one of our favorite spots
for an evening stroll.
One night (and it was night), I arrived home and decided to
head out for an amble with my two little tearaways. We parked up at the Castleisland
car-park and decamped. I was kitted out in black rain slicker, combat trousers
and waterproof boots. I've a handy head torch for these nights, but knowing
every twist and turn, I didn’t bother to switch it on, rather I aimed for the
slightly lighter patches of night which faultlessly led me along the path, deep
into the forest.
It wasn’t long before I neared the northern entrance to the
wood and became aware of some unusual movements behind a large directional
stone. I moved closer and listened. From
behind the rock I could hear voices, talking in whispers.
I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I looked
over the rock, and said,
“What you at there, lads?”
The two men in their early twenties, crouching behind the
rock, nearly shit themselves, and fell back into the bushes. At that time, I
flicked on my head torch, and their huge moon-faces looked up at me from the
dripping foliage. One of them managed to stammer “NNNNNN-Nothing.”
“Grand so,” I said, flicking off my torch and vanished into
the darkness once more.
By the time I came back that the rock was deserted. It was only a week or so later I heard the Guards had discovered a stash of drugs, hidden in the very same woods. Perhaps I scared
them straight, who knows.
It’s a true story by the way :O)
Wednesday 5 August 2015
Matisse
Jimmy
picked up the phone on the second ring, despite it being nearly five in the
morning. He'd slept with one eye open all his life, by now, it felt completely
normal. The letters PB flashed on the screen, and Jimmy knew exactly who was on
the other end of the line.
“Yea,”
he said, holding the phone to his ear without raising his head from the pillow.
“More
trouble, Jimmy,” said the rasping voice on the end of the line.
“Where,”
asked Jimmy.
“Zoe’s,
they hit Dave. Hard.”
“How
hard?” asked Jimmy, sitting up in the bed causing Kathleen to roll over and
turn on the bedside light. She didn't ask who was in the other end of the line,
she'd lived this life long enough to know you don’t ask, unless you’re told.
“Hard,
looks like he’ll lose an eye.”
“Where
is he now?”
“They've
just taken him into James, accident and emergency. That Scobi kid called me. I
am on my way over there now to find out what happened.”
“What’s
the point, you know who it was.”
“The
Griffins.”
“Yea,
the fucking Griffins. Text me tomorrow, we need to get this sorted.”
“Fair
enough, boss,” said the gruff voice before cutting the connection. Jimmy hit
the power button on the mobile and laid it down on the locker, beside three
identical phones.
“More
trouble,” asked Kathleen, turning off the bedside light.
“They
hit Zoe’s,” said Jimmy closing his eyes. Just before he drifted off to sleep
again, he heard Kathleen say, “Time to do something Jimmy.” As sleep took him
once more, Jimmy knew she was right, it was time.
***
Pete,
Pitt-bull, Byrne flipped his phone closed, and stuffed it into his pocket. He
looked out through the rain splattered windscreen at the city lights, spread
out like a blanket in the distance below him. The Jaguar purred as he
negotiated the narrow turns of the mountain road, descending on the sleeping
metropolis. He loved his car: its feline lines, its elegance. As he bore down
on the city, he felt like a stalking cat preparing to pounce on its prey. The
only difference being, a jaguar is hell-on-earth to a gazelle, but to the
hordes of humanity, terror was Pete. Like any successful hunter, Pete
understood he needed the weaker species to survive, it didn’t mean it he had to
like them.
Slowly,
the land leveled out and street-lamps began to illuminate the darkness. Pete
eased up on the accelerator, letting the rumble of the powerful engine die
away, until he could hear the hiss of his tyres passing over the wet tarmac. At
this time of night, the streets were nearly empty, and the city was at its most
beautiful. Light sparkled trough the rain drops, dappling his windscreen. In
the distance, a couple walked hand in hand in the shelter of overhanging trees.
To Pete’s eye, they looked like a stylised painting of Paris, by Matisse, or
some other old master. Pete might well be an animal at heart, but it didn’t
mean he was ignorant of the beauty the world held. He also knew the attack on
Dave was only the beginning, the beginning of something that would rip this
whole city apart. Jimmy might think the situation could be handled, but he was
kidding himself. Pete knew that some people were destined to push things to the
very limit, and the Griffins were just that kind, as was he.
Tonight
a storm was brewing, in reality, and metaphorically. Dave was nothing but the first
pregnant drops of rain, falling from a thunderous sky. Soon the very heavens
themselves would open, and blood would run on the streets of Dublin. Pete felt
his heart quicken and his mouth go dry at the thought of what lay ahead. His
foot pushed down on the accelerator, and the tires bit into the surface of the
road. If there was going to be a war, Pete was destined to be first into the
breach.
Tuesday 4 August 2015
Garry the Goose
I was home for a visit with my parents recently, which is
always great. After spending some time splitting timber, and having tea, we
caught up on all the news I've been missing. One of the
highlights of the last few weeks seems to be the lighter approach, one of our
priests is taking to mass. He ended a service, a couple of weeks ago, with a
joke. I for one am fully behind this new direction and thought it might be cool
to share the joke he told.
Mrs Delaney was an elderly widow woman, who had a habit of picking
unusual animals as pets. For several years, she was seen wandering the highways
and byways of the country, with a large white goose, waddling along behind her.
Very early one morning, Mrs Delaney opened her front door to see Garry
the Goose, lying on his back in the middle of the yard, with his wings spread
akimbo. She ran over to him crying, “Garry, Garry,” and scooped him up in her
arms. Poor Mrs Delaney was beside herself with worry, and ran down to the village
as fast as her feet would carry her. Very soon, she was hammering on Mr Gibson’s
door, the local veterinarian.
Before we go any further, I should tell you a few things about Mr
Gibson. He is a bit of a gruff old sod at the best of times, but first thing on
a weekend morning, he’s sure to be positively grizzly. Mr Gibson was also renowned for his sarcastic
nature and fondness for brandy. When he eventually threw open the front door to
see who the hell was trying to batter it down, he was amazed to see a frantic
pensioner cradling a clearly dead goose in her arms.
Mrs Delaney, burst through the door and rushed past a frazzled looking
Mr Gibson.
“You got to help Garry, Doctor,” she said, dumping the flaccid bird in
the middle his kitchen table.
“I’m not a doctor and who the hell is Garry?” asked Mr Gibson.
“That’s Garry, do something,” said the woman, pointing at the bird
adopting a Jesus style pose across Mr Gibson’s breakfast. Mr Gibson found a statoscope
and pressed it to the cold breast of the recently departed Garry. Mr Gibson soon
looked up at the fretting woman and said, “Your Goose is dead, Mrs.”
“Rubbish, he was fine yesterday, do some tests, just do something!”
demanded the distraught pensioner. Mr Gibson rolled his eyes to heaven and
draped the statoscope around his neck, before stalking out of the room.
A few seconds later he reappeared with a chocolate Labrador dog on the
end of a lead. Mr Gibson pointed at bird, and the dog leapt on the table and
began sniffing the goose from top to bottom. Within minutes, the dog gave Mr
Gibson a sad look and shook his head, side to side. The dog climbed down from
the table and plodded away into the back room in a state of near depression.
Mr Gibson left the room once more, this time returning with a ginger
tomcat in his arms, which he laid on the kitchen table. Much like the dog, the
cat sniffed and prodded the flaccid bird extensively before rising its tail in derision
and walking away with a superior look on its feline face.
Once the cat was gone, Mr Gibson turned to Mrs Delaney and said, “It’s
beyond doubt, your bird is no more, I’m sorry.”
“Poor Garry, I guess he’s gone to a better place,” said the old lady
sadly, laying a hand on the birds bent neck. At last, she turned to Mr Gibson
and said,” How much do I owe you, Doctor?”
“Again, I’m a vet, not a doctor. Let’s call it a hundred euro,” said Mr
Gibson, crossing his arms in a superior manor.
“A hundred euro, why is it so much?” demanded the aghast woman.
“It would’ve only been twenty, if you’d believed me in the first place,
but you did insist on Lab work and a CAT scan. They don’t come cheap you know.”
Mom said about half the congregation laughed and the priest
looked slightly embarrassed, before adding. “I can see some of you didn’t get
it, I explain it to you afterwards. In the
name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
Saturday 25 July 2015
Original Sin
Faith, yes I had faith: I believed in heaven and hell, I
believed in good and evil, I believed in the Almighty and the Dark one, I still
do. The only difference is, I don’t believe anymore, I know. The
thing I liked best about my weekly trips to church, was the rousing antics of
the choir. The way their voices soared in perfect harmony, their bodies swayed
to a beat of their own making while they clapped in time to the hymn. There was
something innately sanctified about the whole experience.
That day, when I stopped believing and started knowing,
began like any other. I dropped my daughter, Ashley, to her swimming club while
I went to K-Mart to do some shopping, it was our Saturday morning ritual. I was
waiting in the parking-lot, as always, when a bundle of hysteria dashed across
the expanse of concrete toward me. Her hair was still wet from the pool and
flapped behind her as she ran. Ashley pulled the door open and dived across the
back seat, while I started the engine.
“Dad, I beat Tracy Johnson!” she cried excitedly, as she
pushed her head between the front seats.
“No Way! Tracy Johnson is unbeatable, you said so,” I teased,
as I pulled out onto the highway.
“Not any more. I got my turn just right and beat her good.”
I turned my head, looking at the delighted cherub face
beaming at me and wondered, not for the first time, what I had done to be so
blessed. If I had been facing forward I would have seen the delivery truck stop, trying to take a turn he’d overshot. My foot would have automatically
sought out the break, but I wasn’t looking. Instead, I drove straight into it
doing over sixty-five. The last thing I remember is my little girl’s happy face,
smiling up at me.
When I woke, I was alone. Nobody sat at my bed-side, waiting
to welcome me back, so I swam into the darkness once more. I drifted in a world
of half-seen shadows and disjointed voices until I heard my ex-wife calling me.
I opened my eyes. Something was wrong, I couldn’t get my vision to focus. She
told me there had been an accident, that I had rear-ended a truck. She told me
that I had head injuries and then she told me I killed Ashley. Words cannot
describe what I went through after that, but I deserved every second of it.
I got better, in every way but my sight. The fuzziness got
worse and worse. The doctors said it may be connected to my brain injury, but I
know better. I was starting to see people as they really are, I was looking
into their souls. I know it’s true, because when I got home and took my first
look in the mirror, what stared back was my true self. A blood drenched scull with black empty eye sockets, filled the mirror. Bloated white maggots wriggled
in the empty nasal cavity and dead teeth stood like crooked headstones in my
hanging jaw bone. It was the face of murder that I saw.
So now, I sit in this church, with my eyes closed, and
listen to the wonderful voices reach up to the heavens. I know God can hear,
because when I look at people, I see the sins they carry on their souls, not
the skin on their bones. Yes, I know there is a heaven, but I also know that I’ll
never see the inside.
I open my eyes, and stare at the collection of gowned gargoyles,
clapping taloned appendages, as their horrific distended mouths, open and close
in song.
Sunday 19 July 2015
Sand, Sea and Sculptures
Here
is a flash history course for you.
Pompeii
was a Roman city. It was completely covered by a pyroclastic lava flow in the
year 79AD. One-thousand-seven-hundred years later, someone found unusual
air-spaces in the condensed lava. The spaces happened to be the only earthly
remains of the unlucky Pompeian residents, who died when the lava hit. Some
clever-clogs filled the spaces with plaster, and when it hardened, they
produced near perfect replicas of people in the moments they perished.
Some
of these casts are on show in the Garden of Fugitives, which is where you can
find me. So, day after day, people shuffle past me, taking snaps of my
nakedness to bring home to the kids. It pisses me off.
Today,
I was standing around, like I do, when a bunch of day trippers appeared.
Tagging on to the end of the line were two girls, (and I am being generous with
that description), who looked like they’d just been thrown out of a night club.
"This
is boring, Trish, can we go?" said the blonde one with the over-sized
sunglasses and the undersized hot pants.
"I
paid twenty-five euro for this bloody trip, there had better be a wine bar
soon," said her friend, who was clearly hung-over and having difficulty
walking in her cheap flip-flops.
"Trish,
would you look at that one," said Blondie, pointing directly at me.
"Ugly
little fucker, ain't he," said Flip-flop, chewing gum like a ruminating
cow.
“He
looks like he’s taking a hard dump," said flip-flop, who clearly thought
she was hilarious. The blonde one snorted a laugh, saying, "Hard dump,
good one Trish."
What
a pair of geniuses, NOT!!
By
this time, the rest of the group had moved on, leaving just Blondie and
Flip-flop in the garden. Flip-flop searched her handbag, pulling out a phone.
"Jump over the rope and I’ll take a picture."
Please,
no!
"It
says, Do not cross,” said Blondie, pointing at the sign hanging from the
guard chain.
It’s
amazing. She actually could read.
"Feck
it, go on," said Flip-flop.
Faced
with such blinding logic, who could argue? Clearly not Blondie, who stepped
over the chain, nearly splitting the seat of her hot pants in the process. She
bent down and put her arm around my shoulder, the smell of vanilla perfume
would have knocked me over if I weren’t made out of stone. Flip-flop snapped
off a few shots.
"Grab
him by the micky, Sarah."
"Jesus,
I can't," said Blondie, in mock horror.
You
better not.
"Go
on Sarah, you've played with mickys older than that one before."
"Mucky
cow!" countered Blondie, but shockingly her head vanished between my legs.
Seriously,
get away from my penis!
"It's
bloody tiny," said Blondie, grabbing a handful of my crotch.
"Give
it a rub and see what happens," laughed Flip-flop. Then, with a snorting laugh,
the blonde moron started to vigorously rub my ding-ding.
Flip-flop
nearly dropped the camera she was laughing so hard, but I didn't find it one
bit funny.
I
warned you!
"It's
starting to get hot." said Blondie, not laughing now.
"Are
you surprised, Sarah? You could start a fire rubbing it that hard. No wonder
you can’t keep a boyfriend for more than five minutes.” Blondie pulled her
hand away from my crotch but kept the other one on my back.
"No,
I mean it's getting really hot, have a feel," she said, and then did the
exact thing she shouldn't. She grabbed my penis again.
When
I caught her hand and pulled it away from my nether regions, she screamed. When
I spoke, her eyes rolled back in her head, and Flip-flop fell on her ass. Seeing
as I'd started, I did what a demon does best, and flash fried the two of them.
The smell of charred skin hung over Pompeii once more and I was forced to
scuttle back to the underworld.
So, there you have
it, the story of how my holiday was ruined. The boss has actually barred me
from going back to Italy anytime this millennium, and there's not that many
places a little stone demon like myself can go unnoticed. Bloody tourists.
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