Do I prefer the ink-stained fingers
to a purple-blue heart?
Little will I care to share.
Little less will I care to know.
Behind covered eyes + quickened pulse
my act never brought me close to this
Will I never look up to see God’s command?
Forever will I sit head fitted against
songs of freedom
only made from a purple-blue bruised
My hand grows nicer by the night.
Alone, sit, to this detention of heart’s desire.
‘No not yet’ St Andrew whispers.
‘No not yet despite your heart’s desire.
Trust in me, will you fellows see.’
Listens the beggar beyond belief.
patty-cake they played and won with
themselves. Their thighs wearing soldiers marks
from a soldiers tune march.
They all would away from Jungle and play
war until their deaths. Saved by the Western world,
ill thought of their graves.
Life to them, saved by faith, was of childish wonder
and even more childish taste.
To those I envy behind my wooden scowl.
To those whom God blesses in his prayers
before he rests.
To those who away and anger by all who didn’t
pass the test.
For whom the bell toils, it ain’t for all. God’ll
For whom the bell toils, send my regards from this
godforsaken foreign soil.
Her denomination of faith was
called, ‘saved by a technicality’.
And that’s how she lived – in the best
of ways. Cailín of Eastern wind
that shallowed the lakes and breathed
warmth on the hearth.
oh what changes + escapes
a single week makes.
A single week.
A single week.
A single shot
of heaven divine in a glass of glennfiddach.
Ach, slán. Slán my dear.
Tonight we will depart well and walk
from the reverberating tracks.
I wish you not to look back.
For I will be watching you walk and I couldn’t bear
you to look.
sit in a square.
Lack them a woman
and lack their music