Station Approach

Behind painterly saintly veiled pale stars
Astride a looming bloomin’ fool
Lies a simply laying creak of water’
And an efforable amount of silver glass

Too much bedside wine ‘n whiskey
Snoopy seeps, on his little house in time
“My life has no purpose, no direction, for me”
“And yet somehow I’m happy and kind”

And then there was this bearded dude
Who talked bout’ taking care of the widows
Supremely reamin’ he said - never crude -
As he navel gazed down his nose;
“The widows and the fatherless, man”
“Where they go, The Dude goes”

And how about that smart Brit
Now he said something that really hit
To paraphrase his deduction
“Man, goodwill, it’s immune to all this shit
“It’s like …”Fuck off gravity!” and keeps goin’ up”
Quite interesting, really ties the moral together, right?

Now I know what you’re thinkin’
This is all a bit too simple
“Be excellent to each other, that’s it?”
Well I’ve got a smile to prove this
Be excellent to each other
That’s it

-Foxes

Stood a mirror on a balcony, knowing not where it had been, what it’d done to be broken and sailed to the earth’s floor. Lady sailed across astride a mirror with bag on back.
“We’re doomed, we’re doomed”
In a landscape, of dream’s take she spake
“The Art of Mirrors
Whether right or wrong
Will rule you till you sing your last song and die”
I’m not afraid I’m not afraid I’m not afraid, and I’m so afraid of dying, you’ll bury me and I’ll spend the next eighty years wondering where time spent my glassworks.
“We’re doomed, we’re doomed”
Try as I might at night I’ll give it up
“Fragments
Fragments
Sing a lullaby of found sound”
And all the while we’ll be wondering where time spent our own days and Nursery Rhymes.

October the 5th, 1995.
Noise, peace.
On a bed of scattered black and whites he has streamt forth a sainterly painterly deceit; but let’s not be crass about it. Victor sat upon the stool, he rode it towards his very depth and kindled a sympathetic protaganist to be audiofied - but only when the inspiration struck him so.
Akin to a poet or writer, the pianist sits at his keys and - either mechanically or not - let’s hedonism of aestethics take him. Victor knew of that little hidden truth to which the other artists could attest; the grandest beauty is not one of unadulterated heart but a heaping of aethetics and mechanics with heart thrust upon it.
“Play me something from the heart, love”
Where did that come…who’s there? Victor wondered: In my own little land, I seperate myself from feeble thoughts of lingering petty mortal morose and sullen or sultry sex and shambolic shackles.
“Honey?” Victor” Continued the voice
“Sally!” He turned and saw something bored and looking for something to stroke those nerves “It’s amazing, there’s this special beauty that comes about when aestethics can be achieved while also breaking tradition, don’t you think?” - his eyes when ablaze with longing - “And It’d been so long since…” So long since I’d felt this sort of joy, the artists joy, the joy of understanding the exactiude of aethetetitude towards beautification, whereby a simply formula for beauty is aligned.
“I don’t follow dear…Are you ok?” Sally looked more curious than worried.
“I don’t think you understand, I don’t seem to know many that do, the point I’m making…I’ve seen art come purely from the heart, it was not pretty, it was a fist wrapped in blood. It was violence, and messy, and confused, so confused” These people just don’t get it, Victor thought, the regular folk romanticise the idea of the arts, as if only the great stuff came from “heart” and “soul”, well I know better.
“Struck by the revelation I was that day, struck, ah well, feck it” Victor grumbled
“Play for me?” Sally went on, seemingly ignoring what she didn’t follow, she’d grown used to her husbands ramblings on these finer delights.
A streaming chords of thirds and seconds follow, neither minor nor major, neither diminished nor augmented, simply a cacophony of counterpoint conflicting minimally.
“This is as heart felt as I want it, in the end it’s simply a machine of tones constructed in a way I knew to be pleasing” Victor mused “love, deny as much as ya want, this is no gateway into my soul unless I choose it to be”
“You’re wrong m’love” Sally chirped “Even your aestethic choices reveal yourself, not as people expect, no it’s not your soul, but your mind is every bit as curious.”

Myaneum daneum onlift tara

Aspheliat BANG BANG BANG

Myaneum escaren taddylicious

Aspheliat BANG BANG BANG

Dear Ciarán
I hope this letter finds you well and that you still have a special someone in your life, be it a dog, cat or our beloved.
 I’m trying to abandon all pretense because I know I have nothing to prove to you; you know how I usually am here, damn I’m an asshole right? Well Staz doesn’t think so but you know her, she sees the best. It’s…difficult to simply drop all the usual crap I write about and the style I do so in…
Remember that time Sarah said our guitar playing sounded like rats drowning, that our paintings belonged in a morgue and such? I’m still thinking of that, I bet you’ve forgotten all but the memory of the days.
I don’t want to write for posterity, The Woman said to never write for nostalgia, that’s the worst kind of writing - Do you still follow her? You should, it made you a lot taller. how about Guy? I hope you still have that man-crush on him.
I’m a mess right now for about 60% of the time; lonely, angry, got that eating disorder cropping up, still depressed, still getting no where. Staz said that it was “typical smart kid isolationism” and I fear she may be right; no easy answer here, no personality disorder, nope, I’m just a tad bit too smart and a bit too lonely. So when we see someone being submissive we leap on top of that and then cry that it’s lonely up here.
I must direct your attention to E, I hope you still listen to him when you’re confused about where you’re going, and I hope you still want to be the loveliest of people, tender, kind.
You’d better still be an anarchist, an atheist, an artist, these were the things that were most important to you once upon a time. I hope you still love Staz dearly, though she may be gone now; you may have moved on, become bored, she may have married by now - maybe you’ve married, but don’t tell you you don’t have enough love to still love her for all the crap she helped you with, this’d better not be a shock to you, your life would be a dim fair indeed without her right now. Always remember your first right?
Hey, stay in drugs, eat your school and don’t do vegetables, love is so much more important than seeming smart, stop being so hard on people if you still are.
We forgave ourselves long ago for that deed, I hope you still don’t think about it every day, I certainly do, continue forgiving yourself every day, the pain will go away some day.
There’s so much more I want to stay, but I don’t want to keep you, go hug someone today.

And please stop correcting people’s grammar when you don’t know how to use semi-colons.

Ciarán

An adapted plagiarization of a plagiarization.

A man lay.

There was a extraordinary truth which he realized in all his liff, in a word pain was beautiful and sadness was happy for deep people. This dear soul just needs to stay still for a tad second. He welters in a shower of this as if it were - as it was - a part of his identity.
A man lit the first cigarette of the day and bellowed smoke for a few mere moments as these things…these…scattered black and whites played? Though afraid he had made his mind; though frayed and earnest. To which a world watched - or so they say - scarcely he could pray for the light of day as she leaped across on top of him and, to give him something to remember her by, punched him gently in the jaw twistedly.
This is not to say that she was a terrible presence, she was just young and devious, so devious.
She’s on top of him still, not ashamed at all, and he’s just laying there, and SMACK, there’s a punch, what in the world? Right.
He doesn’t say anything, too taken aback to dare it and so…distracted. She giggled and leapt off him and put her underwear back on while he stayed on guard, trying not to make the situation any more awkward with a comment on what she’d just done; let’s not discuss it.
I need something..where is it she wondered; THIS HACK can write but I’ll need it
Through the drawers, in the living room, within the kettle, towards the floors, papier and metal at 5 O’clock in the mo-orning!
Sometimes I forget how dark it gets this time of year.
Found it!

She picked a manuscript up; it read “To A Poet” and placed it in her handbag while popping an aspirin.
“Bye handsome” she winked and s-
“Aren’t you going to stay to read it?”

“Read what?-“

“The manuscript! I’ll get it; wait here.” he departed to the bedroom to search while she slipped out the apartment, not forgetting to…whatever.

“A Mature Kid Now”

I will go quietly
I will go lightly
I will not make a fuss -
I will at least be polite about it

I will go politely
I will not make a fuss -
I will go lightly
I will go quietly

If I go at all

I’ll pack all my things when mum still sleeps
Take one last glance at the heaps -
of pages and pianos
I’ll not be selfish about it
no train driver’s PTSD on my hands

I will leave a gentle letter of love on the stand
Begging for a semblance of forgiveness
I’ll hear the scattered black and whites
I will go quietly -

If I go at all

In A Dreamscape

Moon and sea, Sun and sky
Please take me, I’ll go fly
Dirt and sand, glass and star
On which I stand, take me far

A sudden sensation of fall here
Tick the last box on, fall while laying
Dreamt a fawn, awake feigning tear
A paper-mache house, no fear

Sun and moon, harm and boon
Pineal looms so soon to bloom
Earth and sea, circles of ruin
Look at the stars, of which you are

Red wine, stitch stuck in time
The cigarette in the morning
A Valium at night till light,
no fight within sight

Till grey dawn, till boon, too soon
My dreams are built for two
I mean everything I ever say
My dream’s a tapestry for you

There’s a nightmare from which I cannot escape

Six hours later and I’m still awake

There’s a nightmare from which I cannot escape

Three hours ago and I see what’s at stake

The screams sounded and my eardrums; they pounded

I will never be clean again

[to be finished]