Until the sun has
slunk away behind the world
like a sullen child
and all of those in the know
have sunk their deepened faces
into some soft surface
or another.
Stay awake until the
screens have all gone
white and voiceless
and cursing those
still open eyed
and breathing in this
bitter night.
Stay awake
until your eyes burn red
and the room draws in tight
around the four corners of the bed
and all is lost
forever and is gone.
But still
stay awake.
Wandering home,
Along Westland Row,
My fingers firmly pocketed,
Hood up over my
Festively red cheeks,
Puffing away like
The old steam train
From Hollyhead to Kingstown,
Each breath hung
Deathly still
In the air ahead of me
Before being cleft in two
By my nose and the
Rest of my face.
And suddenly,
It began to snow
And I cast my eyes skyward
As the drunks began singing
Some old Christmas song.
Walking home from the train station
on one of those long summer evenings.
Someone had written in large letters
on the wall outside the bowling alley
the word ‘BONDAGE’,
and I pondered the implications of this.
I had never been much good with aggression
or knots.
If the sky knew
what the earth had planned
it probably would no longer
coax the sun up each morning
but instead become black
from mourning and haunted
by images of it’s own past
and the horrendous future.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 