Guns and Suits

Hood down, slouched, that’s how he walked
Great aim, accuracy, that’s how he shot
Guns and suits, his lifetime collection
Life consisting of riots and retaliation

 

He loved me half to death
He hated me the rest
But he could never walk away he swore, he confessed
I was a
Lifetime of mysterious complications
He wore a
Black tux, white cuffs, correlation

 

Guns and suits
Immaculate, and he’s sayin’
Guns and suits
Head bent, shoulders back and – and I’m hopin’
He’s gonna
Kiss me, baby hit me with the trepidation
Rough lips, hard kiss, he’s a constellation
Eyes tight, lips wide and – and I’m lovin’
His guns and suits, yeah
Guns and suits
Guns and suits, baby
Guns and suits

 

He walks around high, pistol in his back pocket
Got a python and a trooper in his tux socket
Police are watchin’ and he’s smilin’ and he’s thinkin’ fuck it
He wants a
Bullet show, homicidal knife party
I wanna
Jazz song, and a blood storm in the lobby

 

Guns and suits
Immaculate, and he’s sayin’
Guns and suits
Head bent, shoulders back and – and I’m hopin’
He’s gonna
Kiss me, baby hit me with the trepidation
Rough lips, hard kiss, he’s a constellation
Eyes tight, lips wide and – and I’m lovin’
His guns and suits, yeah
Guns and suits
Guns and suits, baby
Guns and suits

 

His short black hair, the smoke from his cigarette
The way he squints as he studies me in depth
Makes me feel protected with an arm around my shoulder
I like ’em older

 

Guns and suits
Immaculate, and he’s sayin’
Guns and suits
Head bent, shoulders back and – and I’m hopin’
He’s gonna
Kiss me, baby hit me with the trepidation
Rough lips, hard kiss, he’s a constellation
Eyes tight, lips wide and – and I’m lovin’
His guns and suits, yeah
Guns and suits
Guns and suits, baby
Guns and suits

 

Written in 2015.

 

Heart

I found my soul within the burnt pages of an old book, or maybe it was while I slept

I realised my heart was never missing and kept in the protecting hands of my sister as I cried on the bathroom floor and missed her

I’ll find my mind

Where it was lost in the dogfights

Flashbacks to late nights

And purple skies

Where river meets fire

Sweet Tralee

The soil’s as fresh as honey
The finches choir in the trees
Where the flowers grow
Oh the fuchsia that spring in Tralee

They buried a man with his dog
The son sang the widow a song
They’re crying for peace,
In fields of red and green
Oh, what happened in sweet Tralee?

The Irish still drink in Tralee
Their dogs all chained to the trees
There’s a cold in the breeze,
And the hounds they will freeze
Because the men want a drink in Tralee

The children are out grabbing thorns
They’d be safe to their mothers they swore
But they’re watching their das,
And it’s sure they will catch
The curse of the thirst those men bore

Their nails are soil-free
But the hands that serve us aren’t clean
The oaths are all fake,
It’s the money they take,
Agus na Gaeilge, abash by the sea

Life’s Greatest Paradox

I feel like I’m granted only a set amount of time with people, anyone, in my life

And it’s not about choice

Grow close to someone just to have an unmountable wall wedged between us

All support is then temporary

And all love is then just heartbreak waiting to be felt

Life births us and from then we have to die, and so everything we make too, under life’s ruling, is also finite

It is a cruel lesson, awaiting the inevitable end to everything, the by-product being that the little time we are allocated is spent with worry and trying to disengage so the scissors won’t hurt as much as possible

If I could I would keep them, but I cant, and I have tried

We have only ourselves forever, which is torturous in itself because time away from me is what I need. But he is just as fast as I am, just as strong and he knows all my hiding spots

But it’s there where life is limited

Only in death can we part from ourselves, soul from mind, mind from body, body from heart, but to join death we must escalate life’s ageing system and end everything we have made

Life’s Greatest Paradox

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