The Office 

You might think getting promoted will help things,
but such instances won’t patch over the holes in your heart.

Surrounded by circulars, memos, unread emails,
meetings about something,
half-broken office chairs and pretend filtered tap water.

The oldest man in the nightclub, yet only 35.
Deceived by your grey hair and genetics.
It’s not adding character to you like it did to John Slattery.
Just your luck, schmuck.

Addicted to tramadol for back pain
and red wine like a housewife, yet you’ve no house.

700 a month to share a two-bed kip in Park West,
M50 outside your bedroom window,
a business park outside your living room.

Clogged up and noisy plumbing.
A smorgasbord of the unworthy as neighbours.
A Handmaid’s Tale scenario starting to appeal.

And
the brown stains on the office ceiling tiles above your head grow larger,
albeit slowly, over the years.

Inside, your stained soul soils itself beyond repair.
Even senior management pay of 2k a week can’t set it right.

Now you’re 55 and your dick doesn’t work.
You’re constipated.
Your back aches
even in its 700 quid ergonomic chair.

You had your second colonoscopy in 12 months yesterday.
The same nurse, not recognising you,
tried to ease your mind as she shoved a 12-inch dong up your lubed ass
by asking you to name five towns in Dublin with an “O” at the end.
Knowing the answer, and knowing why the question was asked,
you focus the entirety of your consciousness to your behind
and feel every millimetre as it goes way up into your ass.

The large plastic plant in the corner of your office lives more than you.
The random and anonymous god-awful paintings
that cover all four walls look like vomit.

The broken blinds don’t block out the seldom-shown sun properly.
The carpet’s still a fucking mess
even when they replace everything else.

You have to get corporate on the blower again.
And you the head of fucking corporate.

And all will secretly hate you.
And you’ll have no friends.
No family.

You’re attractive
in the way a free bruised banana is to a junkie.

But your bank balance will be full and hefty.

But your inspiration, youth, and health
gone, gone, gone.
Wasted.
Burned away.

You should have listened to Krishnamurti.
But you corrupted yourself.
For pretend digits on a screen.

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Procrastination

Sitting here in isolation
surrounded by an entire nation
I’m stuck in contemplation
reeling from self-immolation
praying for the equation
that brings back that missed elation
I pretend it’s not procrastination
that keeps me from leaving this station
and facing the realisation
that I am a slave of my own creation.

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The Chancery Inn

Rabble squalid early house smoking area
old man says:
“so the Milky Way and Andromeda will collide
and we'll all die
it’s how you deal with that inside
that’ll get you through the ride
you’ll be here
you’ll be gone
round and round
until that bomb comes along
but now I must leave
cos it’s nine a.m.
and that’s my song!”

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The Journey

Devoid of culture
and devoid of soul,
devoid of caring
for anyone
or the heart I stole.
Devoid of want
and devoid of meaning,
devoid of feeling
and devoid of believing.
I lost it all
and so lost life.
I lost myself
and lost my wife.
I lost love
and lost trust.
I lost hope
and the friend I cursed.
Immersed in self-pity
and immersed in fake glory,
immersed in thoughts
and immersed in fake stories.
Immersed in pain
and immersed in tears,
immersed in insanity
and immersed in beers.
Found in darkness
and found in poor health,
found in sadness
and found wanting death.
Found with pills
and found with a rope,
found with a knife
and found with a cut throat.
I die slowly
and die painfully.
I die bleeding out
and die pitifully.
I die hiding
and as I die
I cry.
I die screaming for her,
and I die
without a reply.

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Day to Day

It’s always coming and going
as I've seen everything do
that feeling of lust
that feeling of triumph
that feeling of love
that feeling of trust
that feeling of hope
all follow the same route.
You could almost grasp it as you felt it
you hold your breath
but it slipped on through
over and back
passed me towards you.

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Up And Down

Six months on the Ritalin,
they said it would help my concentration,
even though I told them I was feeling down,
like the perennial sad clown.

She left me pining in bottles of whiskey and cheap wine,
I didn’t see it coming, 
I was asinine.

Can’t get out of bed to crawl to work,
Ritalin they’re pushing but I couldn’t give a fuck.
Quickly moved on to Zoloft,
cringe walking to the chemist because this big man feels soft.

Walking to work, 
beautiful women make me sigh,
the buildings float by,
and the footsteps don’t feel so high.

Three months later,
I don’t feel like one of earth’s creatures.
Why go on,
so I can stare at this screen longer?

All I can see now is darkness,
who is the real me?
This newest one they call Lexapro,
someone please let me know.

Thoughts of living as long as Methuselah,
make me sick,
my mind feels like a cold sore picked,
waiting for an infection that can’t be kicked.

I moan, moan, moan to myself I’m going to crack,
constant moaning like a bitch bitching behind my back.

Drugs are easy to get, such as these,
from a different kind of dealer,
one full of degrees.

And then God divided the light from the darkness,
and God called the light day,
and the darkness he called my life,
and with that I ended it,
and walked toward the bay.

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Death’s Door

Once men tired of life through endless war,
young men old at nineteen, 
twenty, 
twenty-one,
death’s door a thorough friend in dark wet muddy smelly bloody trenches,
dreams of home, 
marriage, 
kids,
somewhere quiet, 
farm, 
green hills.

Bombs explode overhead,
explode beside you,
best friend’s brain on your helmet, 
face and hands,
retreat and be shot by your own for desertion,
no escape,
death’s door not a problem,
not a worry,
welcome.

Now men at thirty tire from nights and days of booze,
broken hearts,
and hearts broken,
me, 
me, 
me,
with no true friend,
depression,
pills,
psychoanalysis,
hugs,
don’t touch me dirty stranger.

Ass cheeks sore from sitting all day in front of a screen,
wrists pain from data inputting,
contrast and brightness levels that can never be set just right.

Death sees nothing to like about this new man,
no depth,
no character,
no soul,
not worthy,
sick and pitiful,
death’s door won’t even pursue.

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Night School

If there was an algorithm for life,
I’m sure it would be as indecipherable,
as listening to someone explain constant and linear trees.

Life is indecipherable,
but if you ignore constant and linear trees,
which I recommend,
and go get eight cans of Amstel,
and drink while watching Braveheart,
followed by Gladiator,
with beans on toast in between,
life improves drastically,
until the booze runs out.

And in your greed, 
you buy a bottle of whiskey,
and consume it until the world starts to spin,
and your insides come outside,
and then life has gone back to what it was,
when the Chinese man was explaining something about algorithms.

Except there is comfort,
lying on the furry and fluffy toilet mat,
knowing the toilet bowl is never far,
and how it never says a thing.

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The Happy Voyeur

It’s the drive,
the drive to succeed and conquer,
it’s no longer there.

I watch,
I watch,
I watch some more.

I see a young redhead with a nice big juicy ass,
standing beside the bar,
but I feel no need to approach her.

Maybe I could have her,
maybe she would laugh in my face,
but it wouldn’t feel the same as it did ten years ago.
She’s the age now I was then.

Now I talk about the unfairness of society,
she would talk about how great life is
and have the wrong answers to everything.

I know the answer,
I know the failure,
we will never connect,
on common ground,
above or below,
different era,
different eon.

I’ll just watch her sparkly red curls from afar,
as she lingers seductively by the bar.
This feels good.

And God whispered,
“I see you there. You are scared. Go home to bed. It is okay, my child.”

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A Circle

Here in the west,
we are a society of broken hearts and dreams,
breaking hearts and dreams,
living a lie every single day.

But with the cycle-to-work scheme,
you can get to and from work quicker,
which gives you extra time
to break hearts and dreams,
or to have your heart and dreams broken.

And as cycling increases your health,
you live longer,
which gives you extra time
to break hearts and dreams,
or to have your heart and dreams broken
more often,

while the lie continues,
never acknowledging it,
until the day it acknowledges us.

And on that day the circle itself is broken,
and we never wake up again.

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Irish Wedding

When the candelabra laughs its wax tears at your shit,
you’re fucked,
as you lean sideways in your seat from Guinness.

A fog of dance out there,
blue yellow green lights,
all dance,
Tina Turners.

Move to get more booze,
blurred vision,
Jameson and coke,
cigarette smoke.

The hours pass by,
flashy camera lights,
eyes squint,
tiredness sets in.

People fight,
laughs,
screams,
tears,
until it’s bright,
and the Irish wedding is over.

Waddle back to the B&B,
to be awoken by the landlady with a roar and a bang on the door.

“It’s twelve o’clock!”

and fuck! Free breakfast missed.

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I Can Talk Shite For A While Yet

In the hall of great Irishmen,
Pierce et al,
as I view Irish history in photos from my Patriots Inn stool,
I realise I have offered nothing,
and have nothing to offer,
like most people.
But Patriots are not most people.

Some intellectuals might argue
that patriotism is a form of tribalism,
but if you're an intellectual
you probably don’t have many friends to talk to,
and so no one hears your argument.

“One more pint there, Sean, please.”

“You’ve had enough.”

Patriots and many an intellectual once sat here,
but neither could get a pint without a Sean’s approval.

Is it the barman who is in total control?
The Sean gave, and the Sean hath taken away.
Blessed be the Sean.

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Tomorrow I Will Rise Anew

Tomorrow I will rise anew.
The same man.
But very different. 
This time I will make the changes discussed. 

It is windy out and dark. 
I must go to the shore,
the most vacant and beautiful of places. 
There I think of 
and envy 
those with little worries. 

They know nothing of true horror. 
Will never know. 
Nothing of guilt. 
Nothing of being torn both ways at the same time. 
Nothing of suffocation. 
Nothing of no man's land. 
True real loneliness. 

The infamy of designation 
to the detested class. 
The few. 
The dark. 
The wide aware. 

And what easy deaths
the majority will enjoy, 
while their nails 
will penetrate my wrists.

But until then 
I will go on.

Tomorrow I will rise anew.

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Hieronymus Bosch

Never judge a life by a photograph.
Discard your shoes of comfort.
Feel each annoying click.
Stare into the blue light.
Leave sleep for another trip.
Food is waste.

All buzzwords to the cloakroom please.
Tell.
Yes.
Show.
Away.

Where did the start end.
Simplicity.
Do not have faith.
Feel the needle.

And

Smile

Or

Frown.

Reading
the Bible
the Koran
the Torah

means

I understand
Bosch’s copycats
want to feel.

Pour one more.

Please.

Thank you.

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Tardy

How tardy of you
to do so.
You should have run
long ago.

Now you are glue.
Now you are going
to be blue.
You will be muted.
You will be booted.

Such pain
you could not imagine
awaits.
Such hell
usually breaks.

But if you weasel,
scrape,
and hide,
and somehow
survive,

on the other side
your broken body
and mind
can rise.

On the other side
you can finally
be alive.

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