Road to Reason

All talkings are an epitaph of time gone by. Past tense, worse than present tense.

My hopes, dream, total asunder. A happy day, far longed mine, but this silence between: golden. Understanding divine.

Within the window panes I spelt the name The name of near ones Dear And the fog of breath rained Away the lines of forced fate And I, alone with reason errant dwelt, accepted the form of Shadows that blighted this Moment of late.

Looming signs of the travel of time. Forget-me-nots fare not well when life for both is not. Day-dreaming clouds – a sunken sign – wood-frame chips seen behind glasséd eyes. Travelling seconds, tick seen but not heard. Etchings of age but in this moment the sounds, unheard.

I watched my love fall before me into the emotions of lust. Before me the body succumbed to other-wordly noise that changed pale skin to red. Like a body wishing to fly gravity had other plans. Like smoke to a flame as the wisps flew high, the embers settle, and the fired paper falls to the floor. I watched. Body fell. I wished to die to end this world of borrowed time. To his death and mine…

Ignatius gnats that fly never so far away. The presence overstays, the annoyance abounds. Alas am I stuck to fate noble entwined the name of mine to these gnats that fly. You’ve chosen me lucky, but luck rather I’d be the fate of my loved one and I instead these gnats and me.

Middle-crossed symphony agéd watcher, unmusic undanced though the talk abounds. Absent smiling face, even if he were here it wouldn’t be grateful fate. We danced to music the one; he danced, and my followed eyes, feet down below shackled to the mind. We never danced again, no he and me and then alone just me. In front of mirrors closeted my feet socked create minimal beat. Son, music unlike this,…

Follies: No one and nothing is mine, and who would want one when one brings only bad ones? And who would want nothing when any- thing is much better? __________________________________ The touch of familiarity. The look shared of trusting eye. He blinks not when he stares: the same trick from he to me. If he stares not at me, then I’ll stare at him. He played a song for me: well-played.…

In which the author discusses its name

Oh to dread what people think. Fear even more what they speak. My name far- reaching, from its number few. If those who’ve heard me, those whom remember. I apologise greatly, and wish that number few.

The two accordions sound like mice squealing. Oh so different from last night. So it is, subdued demeanour and silence strong. The men talk to men, I talk to no one. My mother on the phone line telling me her life. Quiet smile and untalked nods. Her eldest child exiled, it’s the least one could do. The garden needs mowing, the husband never does. Quiet disharmony ruining perfection on this sunny…

The Prodigal Daughter’s Return. Missing the last chapter. _________________________________ Jealousy starts once more; I’ll bash it down. If it’s justified jealousy then off my merry way I’ll go. _________________________________ Finer is the tea tasted when not you who made… Alternative is true for the Guinness pint given freely to you.

Make dirty a page of new. My own design, my own to choose. I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong to do. To bring the past upon a page o new. Thee are no conjunctions, there is no hope of Christ redeem. There is none of that when white becomes unclean. There fault is mine, all here agree clear. The burden of resurrection is one that Pontius could understand. The sin of woman outmatches sin of man.…

writing in a pub

Forgotten poetry; better that way. For the stuff of Gods and mead need not be remembered, for rather they alone be. Malaprop, the star tonight. They speak louder and louder, the time passing by. For muteness I sing, cottoned ears do not all. Alone here I sit, tongue lost, trying to remember forgotten lines.

I prefer the acquaintance to be forgotten; the task of your name bleached away and blotted. Riddance to fear, befall nervous plight. This child-like disposition will remove itself tonight. Prayers go unanswered, but then again I never prayed.

Where are the current WB Yeats? To which do they write? Where are the muses, Maude and daughter fair? To those in America under new orange-rule, the American huns of an American age – where are the geese flying when everywhere is a grave? I bought you ink; I thought them prettier than flowers.

Writing is an act of death; carouse the ink-toned blood that – for pause – stains the skin and enlivens scars.

I wouldn’t blame you if you fled away mo duine amhain óg The stars seem far but much closer to a home. The bag’s all packed, by do máthair agus t-athair, I. The journey’ll rough, the sky dear will seem far. But if you much go, then go on ye should. With the rocks in the shoes, the heel gone to hole. think of maimaí agus dadaí when all looks far and gone. Do theaglach can’t much given, aside from…

My heart has beat a thousand time, a space of minutes on tomorrow’s eve – this night. Jealous Amor, will I see him tonight? Who inited that beast with that ignoble heart. The one whose presence instant one knows. Or shall my dancing companion be one of Lust? The girl with the eyes, so large no room for a heart. To see her dance one could assume so pure – but after the midnight gong he ride turns…