Rhetoric And Lies

Too fast, too hard in my entry,

Was it something that I said? Or something I did?

Or some other old cliche leaving trails of banana skins and slime,

On it’s way with all the other rubbish.

My spine becomes now a spasmodic coil that reverberates beneath the soil,

Manuscripts and daylight and, hoping for a blissful age of repression,

Twisted gnarled and screaming in the waters, thrashing in this mood.

I clamber to the side and attempt to survey the tide,

Always hoping to understand.

The tears of lost cause saints get bleary when you’re standing on the street in Irish rain,

It’s pissing down, some sentient cloud relieving itself on my face,

The tears of ashen times with forky roads and old deserted boreens and a bridge.

The tears of who? what? when? where? how? And of course the ever present why?

Why don’t you just videotape every day and night and send me the evidence in some weird quasi

Stockholm syndrome scenario, a wish of the untrusting man.

Trust is a thing with feathers, it always flies away,

It drives the hope and dreams and happy fragments off to stay,

And in its wake I’m naked lying in a bed coccoon,

Wishing for your body on the moon.

The tears of afterbirth, kids called George and the constant communications.

The tears of dirty weed lies sprouting up in something good.

The tears of not being good enough.

The tears of space and time and a lady walking with someone else.

Would lips like yours not have to grace the world?

Selfishly I trapped them like a tiny little bird.

And locked them in a cage to keep for me

When they had longed that I would set them free.