tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9239778.post114820704779529612..comments2023-10-12T02:28:17.920-05:00Comments on The Nevermind Aesthetic: Feliz cumpleaños.G. E. Lighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05940598194009064484noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9239778.post-1148238142569976902006-05-21T14:02:00.000-05:002006-05-21T14:02:00.000-05:00Happy BirthdayI am a penniless poet in Dublin and ...Happy Birthday<BR/><BR/>I am a penniless poet in Dublin and can write to order. I work in all forms and am one of the hot up and coming poets in Ireland, so if you need a verse or two drop me a line and get in at the beginning.<BR/><BR/>I grew up in the womb of West Lancs, where<BR/>skinheads dwelt in bushes by train tracks and<BR/>cut childrens' heads off if ever they dared<BR/>go under the tunnel after the last<BR/>light had sunk which signalled it was time to<BR/>come home. Playtime finished at sunset when<BR/>I was seven and in the darkness spooks<BR/>ghosts, ghouls or Father Christmas could descend<BR/>into the night depending on what time<BR/>of year it was. Gavin Hesketh once said<BR/>he had seen Santa ploughing through the sky<BR/>with Prancer and Rudolph making his way<BR/>to Nigel McLoughlin's on Ravenscroft<BR/>and I believed him, though Dad said he made<BR/>it up and what had really flown across<BR/>the roof of their house was his mum on her<BR/>broomstick. That year Gavin got a Chopper<BR/>and we started playing Top Trumps together<BR/>in the back of Dad's broken down car<BR/>which he parked in the garage. This was where<BR/>I would listen to the match from Fortress<BR/>Anfield, soaking up the statistics like<BR/>sapling roots drawing strength from the depths<BR/>of a spring laden earth.<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/>LROVSE<BR/>Underneath it all we talk<BR/>over and above what is;<BR/>so why not stay a while <BR/>and let me dream of life with you.<BR/><BR/>I will not make a hollow pledge<BR/>of empty words that promise<BR/>something I can't give.<BR/>The wind<BR/>The sea<BR/>or starlight's shimmer on your hair.<BR/><BR/>The bond I undertake to seek<BR/>exchanges comforts found <BR/>from understanding <BR/>and being understood<BR/><BR/>Although<BR/>when I gaze upon your form<BR/>I see emotion as a mirage,<BR/>you the one love<BR/>who will never truly <BR/>stand before me<BR/><BR/>your flesh <BR/>can be only touched<BR/>in dreams, <BR/>when reality comes alive<BR/>in epic tales, played out nightly, <BR/>or in that half snooze state <BR/>I sometimes get to fool around with<BR/><BR/>a world where my desire <BR/>for you can be indulged. <BR/><BR/>MERRY 'N SQUARE <BR/><BR/>Two rotund balloon flare shapes,<BR/>baby on back<BR/>swaddled in white matching veil hoods,<BR/>fish stall crawl it seems<BR/>towards a dog rabbit whelp<BR/>heading east.<BR/>Further up the rails<BR/>an elongated tip toe straight<BR/>backed ballerina's eye, frozen<BR/>mid twirl, darts out sandwiched<BR/>between mountain point and plateau<BR/>buffered loose by bottle jug geometric<BR/>fawn and fading blue,<BR/>becoming deeper closer to the beach<BR/>blown sun scene<BR/>atop of a white washed cottage<BR/>West of the Van Gough central taper<BR/>splash and blurscape.<BR/><BR/>A maul duab knife scrape<BR/>of mermaid valley moon aglow<BR/>next to a rope stretched<BR/>and sun crazed boudhran player<BR/>seated in daze shot yellow facing the call of lunar boy's<BR/>ghostly pipe blowing into the scrub<BR/>behind a flower cat disguise of<BR/>snow board street lamp,<BR/>and see saw cart clunk line dancing men in suits who play on<BR/>above the thoroughbred goodtimers<BR/>seeking access.<BR/><BR/>And level with the boat toss in blue and white<BR/>dreamy harvesters and pedestrians<BR/>ascend daisy bridge.<BR/><BR/><BR/>TIME <BR/><BR/>Remember when we laughed at life square on,<BR/>in days existing now as only memories held inside,<BR/>distanced from this moment<BR/>by rotation measure time<BR/>we'll never halt<BR/>or with any words define?<BR/><BR/>Words will conjure images<BR/>and spark all sorts of trains of thought<BR/>careering through the mind,<BR/>like kaleidoscopic pictures,<BR/>but these we only glimpse upon in passing<BR/>with internal eyes<BR/>that swiftly frame in wordless abstract<BR/>any meaning they divine.<BR/><BR/>Some things lay beyond<BR/>where conscious grasp can't reach,<BR/>for time, like truth, is each our own,<BR/>unfolds unique to one and all<BR/>and lives are lived as days have gone,<BR/>no two the same<BR/>beyond the passing of horizons by the sun.<BR/><BR/>And should the echoes of our laughter then return,<BR/>when suns now set<BR/>outweigh the suns for rising,<BR/>will they live with those we leave behind,<BR/>when our stream of time no longer flows<BR/>and lips of life cease smiling?<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/>Sincerely<BR/><BR/>DesmondCoirí Filíochtahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15137576329670368944noreply@blogger.com