I’m thinking on it
I’m tripping on it
I’m tricking on it
Thinking on it
Tripping on it
Tricking on it

Smaller, smaller
Altar, altar

Altar, before the altar, our design to make us smaller, smaller
Built the state for the “author”, to build him taller
To Crush

Made from stick and brim we made you for order, order
You’re nailed to a cross father, your honour, my proper
Unfit for slaughter

I could have kept on winning, like a sinner to the minute just
Should I have left it thinning? Or hit it ’till it’s missing?
Was I a slave to the trimmed limit or an edge for the system a precautionary allegiance are you secure in your shiftings what are

What do you want from me?
Another song to sing?
Another wrong to bring in?
No holds barred I see
Scathing me relentlessly
Gunnin’ for a change to take me

Think, trip, trick you’re a good liar but by far not the best
Let it be known, there is nothing else, I only miss the dead

I left it sifting, it was poison in the rifting’s
Did I offer my submission? Had I bowed to the religion?
A mere murder of the mimic are you sound in your exhibit and your delusion of a victim have you tamed your resistance is your heresy dependent on the birth of sacreligion scribing the inscription from the blood of your subjacents the marks and who have made him are deplorably heathen

What do you want from me?
Another song to sing?
Another wrong to bring in?
No holds barred I see
Scathing me relentlessly
Gunnin’ for a change to take me

A mans strength is like a bullet – it’s all down to the number of them
But isolation does not ice-cement abuse
Utilisation of the minimisation is your own way out

And we can keep god dead and we can be godless
We will feel heaven sent and free we will be lawless
We will never again belong to a man – our emancipation is our solace

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





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

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

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