The Night He Died

I’d had an unnerving dream. I’m not unaccquainted to suicidal dreams. In fact they’re frequent enough to render them recurring nightmares. Not a lot of people know that. I doubt a lot of people care. ‘Just Dreams’ I’d hear them say. Well, that night felt like more.

In my dreams I’m usually facing off the edge of something high, staring down. Sometimes my arms are spread, sometimes I’m just bleakly standing. The weather differs, the settings differ, but I am always peering over the circumference of something.

This night it was the unfinished apartment block beside where I live. I pass it every day and every night, on my way to work, on my way home, going to Dunnes, whatever. It is directly opposite the entrance/exit gate to my apartment block, unavoidable.

The twin sister to my own apartment block, it is high and rectangular. Where mine runs a cobalt blue with black balconies and big windows, it runs nothing but grey stone and poking rustic bars. It is stained erratically with seemingly rushed graffiti tags and watermarks.

While they built up, they must have given up on building across, and the very top few stories were left without horizontal flooring like a rugby players gaping teeth.

I was at the tip of this building. I was looming over the brink. The wind was quite choppy through my hair and really tugged at my clothes. It was late and dark and the road below was desolate and glinting wet from an earlier sticky rainfall. I reckon in the dream I was about to jump, but to my complete horror I instinctively turned to my right and found a cloaked shadow of a person looking back at me. There was no face beneath the hood, but I could make out a drooping chin. The long hood then turned towards the road, but then back to me. My hesistance diminished as I realised the foul play that was actually going on. The figure jumped from the building before my very eyes.

I woke with wild energy, like a tin whistle screeching from force. And then, as I always do, I threw my arm around my boyfriend and thought hard on isolated popular areas to lullaby myself back to sleep.

I don’t even know his name. When I found out that there was a body on the ground bedside to the road I felt my heart fill with a different kind of fear. He had dropped from the very building I had dreamt of the night before. He was about 17 years old. I think of the stairs. He solemnly walked up every single step, he put in that physical effort to get up high enough to die. The determination it took of him treading every dreadful step, slowly gathering height, demanding his legs to lift up another, and then another, higher, and then higher. Knowing on every landing of his foot, he was only doing it to end his life. It strikes me with a great grief. A boy, who I had never known nor cared about, has been removed from the world we shared, at close proximity. I am left to wonder what separates us all from each other? A life that lived, slept, dreamt and cried like I still do has become nothing more than a statistic for the officials to dismiss and push under hushed floorboards and we will pretend that the sun rising in the morning will be enough for us. And yet, we know, every single time the sun rises, a man will forcibly and violently exit out of this world and will not live to see that sun settle ever again – a life more temporary than life had ever planned it to be

 

 

 

 

The Day He Died

To my left, I see low hanging clouds, pinched by an orange sky like the hills are on fire.

To my right, a dynamic bay, passively blue, with dockland bells ringing like church chimes as seagulls roam dully above.

Behind me the floor is sprinkled with glass like un-cut diamonds in sand and with doors shut so harshly that the wood shocked and splintered into frame.

I focus on the colony of seagulls swooping that bay, their soft faraway grace reminding me of a dule of doves I once witnessed swimming the air over a jagged graveyard – flurrying, folding and flickering like a slender woman’s fingers melodising a harp.

But the harp stings and the seagulls are shot to the ground.

I lower my gaze to the tarmac road decorated with fallen Autumn leaves gracing it like summertime freckles.

The steel barrier of the balcony suddenly vibrates into boneless fluidity. Stunned, I witness motionlessly it pulsate impossibly, bending wetly into itself, then stretching out to restrictive normality. I blankly watch this happen in front of me, absent of any explanation. I begin to feel a natural unease as I observe the strangeness, a threatening feeling, a caution of danger, an activation of reaction. My heart rate becomes seemingly emphatic, inescapably stressing attention to the anxiety poking through any previous sense of calm – fucking acupuncture to a balloon.

As the build up continues its ascension – my realisation that the barrier is without doubt, de-stricting itself, I reflexively shut my eyes and the darkness then trumps all. After a few moments of lull, I hesitantly stretch my arm to touch and pleasurably find I have gripped something immobile, perfectly horizontal. I relieve my sight which triggers a feeling of detoxification in me as my body ceases its native panic. With my arm still closed around the cold barrier I lift my view to the greatest phasm of wonder, weightless square of frigid pressure above, the sky – beautifully undeniable and powerfully inexhaustible. But blink by blink, I notice a slow discolouring right in its bare middle. A steam of breath escapes me as I deliberate against my sight with confusion – I blink faster – and there – a deepening chasm – a bruised purple fathoms, like internal damage or leakage – I rub my eyes in disbelief but through the resulting fuzz now behold a sincere gash slashing straight through the sky, its thick carmine stem dressed with buzz cut dashes branching off its mother carve like nerves to a spine.

I shuckle away in horror, cloaking my eyes from natures dislaw. In a desperate seek for comfort I cover my ears and gently hum to myself old lullabies, furiously willing myself to conceptualise love – continuity, life. It is there that I create a peace to find – within the knowledge of resourcefulness, the essence that life like energy is indestructible.

Blindly and turned away, I reach for the bar again over my back. I flimsily catch it with gratitude and allow my full weight to depend on it. Then I pet my hand along it, ensuring again its unit until I am satisfied that my sight is mad and senses rebelling, the ordinary not lithesome, the sky not wounded.

But when I open my eyes the sky is gushing, raining blood drops from its open trauma having mercilessly expanded as though a giant scalpel had gradually etched from hand to elbow, the hills flaring as a ravaging fire lashes their surface and roars to me as it, with intentions of a monster, consumes its way to me – the water of the bay high and rising and now a glistering scarlet, a burning pink under a seeping rose sky, Ravens above dropping from their panicked flight in one by ones

Attending the mixing chaos, I hope I am mad. I hope my lover remains alive in a world far from here. I hope my brothers survive. I hope that with what is left of them, they find what has been lost

 

Lungs on Fire

Our Lungs Are On Fire

They poured kerosene down our throats
With our mouths pried open
Some died of paraffin poisoning
Some drowned
And for the rest of us
They dropped a lit match
Can you feel your tubes filling with smoke?
Can you feel your inner linings eroding?
Can you taste the charcoal on the back of your tongue?
Coughing up the thick ash – the burned black pieces of our organs?
Our lungs are on fire

And my eyes are burning,
But the tears keep coming
I wish they could do something
Melt the fires away

But the fires stay burning
Carbon Dioxide still churning
We rape our mother
One-by-One, after another
Relentless

And the fires are still burning
The dioxide is still earning
We berate our mother
Us on top, her under
Selfish

I wonder about the birds, circling the forest
Calling their young
Their babies that couldn’t yet fly
Waiting for her return
I wonder how long the bird soars
Until its wings give
She falls onto a low hanging branch
And cries with a raspy caw unusual to hers
She turns her head and sees a familiar stow engulfed in piercing orange
And paces towards a smoldered nest with her roasted children inside
Her lungs are on fire

The anxiety,
Yes it’s hard to breathe
Harder to breathe
When your lungs are on fire

If we aren’t scared,
We are blind
If we aren’t trying
We’re all dying
Our lungs are on fire

How do we sleep
With a fire in our bodies
How do we laugh
With cinders in our teeth
Our lungs are on fire

If they’re burning the land we live off,
The animals we feed from,
The trees we breathe from,
The earth we learn from,
Do you think they won’t burn us too?
Throw us into the fire
Control their empire
Do you think they haven’t already started?

Earth sprinkled with decimated maize crops
No protection from the sun come Summer 2090
The seas rise and makes us move
The temperatures rise, and globally deplete food
Carbon Dioxide – the waste product will leave us the same

And we’ll sail on the river of lava and walk barefoot on burning coal and pretend we haven’t turned Earth into Hell

Bats

Sweaty bats gliding through an Autumn-Magic sunset, their kiwi-rat bodies glinting over the tips of dark and meaningless houses- unbothered and unspied, only by me and my tired eyes and sore arm.

They are numerous, scattered like pepper sprinkles, dotted over a sheet and I recall with a painful wince the detail – the ache in my hand holding that fountain pen so steadily, its slim knib slowly cutting and dragging at the droopy blobs of tar that never had time to harden.

Bats – gloopy and inky for me – I just wipe my hand over the page and distort the sky I spent so long to colour in purple.

I wish I could’ve done more, I wish I had known to try. And maybe that’s mankinds biggest flaw. Wondering why we were never given the answers to questions we forgot to ask

Full Body Madness

My veins, vibrate
To a sound I don’t create
Went to the doctor couldn’t take me further…
Full Body Madness
This is what happened

Maybe it’s cancer causing my psychosis
Slaving me up whether I do or don’t know it
Silhouettes screaming on bridges…
Full Body Madness
Most are distracted

{‘Ghost of Threes’ E-Guitar chords}

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

Incapable of loving anything that wasn’t chaotic
If it wasn’t sending me over the edge I couldn’t want it
Flicking the elastic band of suicide…
Full Body Madness
In Latin it’s practiced

I don’t know what I’m holding on to but I’m losing grip
The sensation that my spine will slip
“I don’t feel like I have a big brother anymore”
Ellie I don’t think you do either
My match is lit as she smells the ether

{Ghost of Threes}

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

THESE MELANCHOLIC VIOLINS HAVE BEEN SCREECHING EVER SINCE

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

THESE MELANCHOLIC VIOLINS HAVE BEEN SCREECHING EVER SINCE
{Ghost of Threes}
Psychotic // Narcotic // Dementia Praecox
Hydroponic // Symphonic // Catatonic // Melodic
Entropy // Catastrophe
Degeneracy // Cardinality
Blasphemy // Illegitimacy
Ox-Trinity // Extremity

Polycene, vx liquored, wet-defect

AND I REALLY WANT TO TASTE KEROSENE
AND I REALLY WANT TO BATHE IN CYANIDE
“Consent is tricky in a relationship”

My Nitric Rhetoric
{Ghost of Threes}
A psychotic, narcotic, dementia praecox
A hydroponic is symphonic is catatonic is melodic
The following degeneracy warped cardinality
The blasphemy resides in illegitimacy
My ox-trinity in its full powered extremity

Polycene, vx liquored, wet-defect

What’s the matter with my love
Mountain tip on my hair split
What’s the matter with my love
It’s in my head, in my head
What’s the matter with my love
Rubbing picric on my skin
What’s the matter with my love
Day goes black, night goes red
What’s the matter with my love
I know to run, don’t know why
What’s the matter with my love
Day goes black, lights go red
Soil goes black, sky goes red
Day goes black, lights go red

Take It Slow

I get so tired

Soul ignites

Fingers get hot

Sound gets washed

Summer, time

Blonde divine

Chevrolet

Cruise this way

 

And

 

Take it slow,

Slow on me

You know you’ve got no moral line,

Swear you had it out for me,

Take it slow,

Slow on me

Carousel connives with time,

We have caught infinity,

So take it slow

 

And

 

Cool down

Cool right down

Hepehastus take the heat we share

Hammer on the anvil

 

Let me breathe

Taste my dreams

Light by step

Hydro wet

Gren,a,dine

Swift slip stream

Acura

Bashful star

 

Sugar lime,

Soaking thyme

Ease the rhyme, ease the rhyme

 

And

 

Take it slow,

Slow on me

You know you’ve got no moral line,

Swear you had it out for me,

Take it slow,

Slow on me

Carousel connives with time,

We have caught infinity,

So take it slow

 

Cool down

Cool right down

….

Electrolytes electrify,

By the Burmese ruby gline,

Delectable silver ring shine

Feel so young

Sweet and young

….

Summer came to testify,

Springs water and Autumns sky,

Fruited all the parched rhye

….

Take it slow

Painting Rain

You left, put between us miles
You left, took it all, left me bare
I’ve been painting rain, on bathroom tiles
Four walls and a bed, you’re gone and I’m here
Just me and my pen,
When you’re gone I’m not there
With nothing to feel
I just feel

You’re gone and I’m here
I’ll be painting rain
When you’re gone I’m not there
I’ll be painting rain
I’ll be painting rain

It’s time to leave this house
I need to get fucking out
Breathe in fresh air, poison it with despair
I am the fleshed damage you left behind
I am the vacant expression on the marble tile
I make them cry, I made you cry

You’re gone and I’m here
I’ll be painting rain
When you’re gone I’m not there
I’ll be painting rain
I’ll be painting rain

I’ve coloured every hall
In these blue raindrops
I’ve coloured all my walls
In these big raindrops
They’re painted on the floor
Where I write when I’m sore
They’re painted on the doors
Because my love is no more

Every night and day
I’ll be painting rain
Painting rain

Every night and day
I’ll be painting rain
Painting rain

Every night and day
I’ll be painting rain
Painting rain

Every night and day
I’ll be painting rain
Painting rain

Every night and day
I’ll be painting rain
Painting rain

 

(Painting: ‘Rain In The Field’ by Natalia Limanenko.)