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In my college newspaper…
In an article about porn…
With no paragraphs…
But still!
Go here (page 19) and read it!
I haven’t posted a poem in a while. I would love to say it was because I was blogging or songwriting. But really it was because I was either out on the town or being scared out of my skin by the concept of shock. That’s scary shit people. Anyways, here we go. As pessimistic as always 
Mia
I feel her burrowing
Into the snuggest of recesses
Loathe to part from such a welcoming host,
All nourishment provided at her very will.
So enticing her smile, her speech,
Her ease and aesthetic
That every vowel, every verb
Rings as true as the moon.
Consumed or not, I am fragmented.
And yet I love her all the more,
Absense truly augmenting
The fondness in my heart.
Treading such a thin line
It is hard to tell where I end
And she begins,
Only that she surpasses with an unknown rule.
A day not long ago,
I decided to leave her
As alone and despairing
As she had once left me
And through the war
Of tears and pain and scales
I believed I was free,
That I had never once loved her,
That I was once again my own.
But she is a cunning temptation
Of dark ideals and darker love.
She has not spared me yet.
Is she a light, an oasis? – I cannot tell.
But I hear in her voice
A cadenza of truth
And I am captured within her spell.
P.s. This isn’t some weird cry for help or anything. This is old, I am still in celebration mode for my one year recovery!
Often times, I get lazy and fail to finish a story. Here is one such example.
As alcohol had pulsated through his veins, so anticipation had raced in hers. Unfounded, of course, but she had made a promise to end this after tonight. Tonight this longing would end, leaving with him or leaving without him. Whether he had realised or not was unclear, but he never left her side and through a torrent of words, old wounds and unexpected guests, she had tried to protect him. For the first time in months, her own needs were superfluous. All that mattered was him.
The conversation has become nothing more than a blur. But the volume of the music, her words struggling to overpower the decibels to reach his ears, and then, like a thunder clap, his weight against her as her back pressed against the wall, this same pressure imitated between their lips, the need, the hunger screaming as the past eight months were entirely forgotten, the momentary lapse in her judgement just to feel that necessary again – all of this was as clear as day.
This had to more than just that time of year.
I am cynical. And logical. And essentially atheistic. And I love a nice bit of scientific proof to back up any claim. So it is a wonder that I get on famously well with an alternative healing nun.
This morning was a health morning in my mom’s CDP. Thanks to Regeneration, the last of the housing estate (besides the project itself) is being torn to the ground. I mention this merely to contrast this mass of destruction with the healing that is slowly but surely affecting my soul.
I sipped on a smoothie while I waited for Maire (the alternative healing nun) to be free. Not my first time with Maire, she greeted me with a giant hug and a congratulations on my LC results. And then we chatted. Its no wonder people go to her for counselling. I filled her in on leaving college, what I’m up to now, the cold I can feel coming on (she noted I was pale) and random other anecdotes concerning the family (such as Helena’s goal at her GAA match yesterday 
) Then came the alternative part.
So maybe Bio-Resonance Testing isn’t an orthodox medical approach. But damn it if it hasn’t improved my health ten-fold in the past. I don’t want to believe in this stuff, but if it can suss out my wheat allergy and make life significantly easier to handle, then I trust. My energy is down at 9, it seems. Which is a fail considering it was a 23 last time (its out of 30.) I explained my weight loss situation to Maire and I’ll be seeing her again soon.
Part 2 of my healing today was my first ever Reiki experience. Reiki was something I was even more loathe to subscribe to. I mean, honestly, what was this supposed to do. For the first 5 minutes, my thoughts raced, and I realised how all over the place my mind actually is. It’s difficult to switch off. I made progress as the 20 minute session went on. Your eyes close deeper, your body feels warm, your muscles heavier, stiller. And I woke up more at peace than I have in months. The practitioner told me I needed to be more grounded (which I agree with) and that I essentially have my head in the clouds. She also said that I had been blocking part of the creative side of my brain. Ok.. I thought. Did I write? Why, yes, I do, in fact. Have you been writing a lot less lately? YES. You should start writing more again. Freaky, considering my blogging has gone to death lately. This is a sign.
So improvement seems on the horizon. Even if it wears off after a day
Emily had a fondness for her wicker bag. It was overtly large, notably old-fashioned and screaming of flowering embroidery. As she wandered through the park, head lost in the darkening clouds, she felt that the bag encapsulated the essence of her soul. She pondered whether wicker was waterproof and how protected the contents of her bag (comb, manuscript, pocket xylophone, a multitude of scarves and a single glove) would be, especially given that she had forgotten to pack an umbrella.
Moss, spattered in its patterns, grew around the bark forty five degrees from where the path began. A trail had started to appear from the other side of the path, a remnant of all those who had strayed her before, the mark of countless couples on the hunt for privacy, numerous children engrossed in hide and seek, frustrated adults whose dogs had broken free from the leash. It was a good tree, a solid tree, a tree of consistency and upstanding morals. It was a tree that would tell no secrets. A tree to be trusted.
His thumb had smudged the lens as he wiped the raindrops from the glass. Realising that the rain wasn’t letting up, Alex had decided to struggle on, determined that he would not go home without at least one somewhat adequate picture. The shelter of the playground’s wooden train had quickly lost its novelty when the wind had begun pushing the rain against his back regardless. Stumbling on the increasingly narrowing path, he turned in a circle to investigate the prospects. He was looking for… He didn’t know. Anything. A brightness, a gloom, a spark. He wasn’t sure. But he had hope that he would know it when he saw it, that he wold feel it in the pit of his stomach, against the back of his arms. And from nowhere, he heard bells.
The vertebral column of the tree almost perfectly arched to fit hers as she leaned herself into the bark. She had always like this weather. Fairy weather is what it was, a time when mythical creatures held festivals and celebrations, a weather that humans looked down their noses on and yet was still habitable. This weather was inspiration, these surroundings a muse. Her pocket xylophone comprised of fourteen metal plates on a wooden frame and under no circumstances could it ever have fit into a standard pocket. Tiny rivulets sloshed against the silver surface as she lay the instrument into the grass and slowly began to hit a short and delicate motif with the mallet. As the bell-like timbre resounded through the air, she ignored the rustling of leaves behind her.
He had picked this tree because its broad leaves and thick branches had suggested ample shelter so as to re-establish what he would do. The music had only added to the intrigue. He thought that perhaps he had recognised the tune – a hark back, maybe, to his earlier days of learning the tin whistle, the days before he had replaced the instrument with his beloved Kodak. The girl, well, she was not beautiful. She looked out of place and dishevelled and wrong in the context. An anachronism. So why couldn’t he look away?
I was going to come home and have a bitch about school protocol and junk like that, then I realised it would probably be better not to have a libel suit against me. So instead, I’m serialising the weird story I wrote for my mocks. It’s odd. And contains a lot of references to things I have written in the past. But embrace it
She was a woman of unusual taste. Matters such as part-time emplyment, state examinations, up-and-coming trends were rarely an isue for her. She was highly more concerned with the simpler pleasures in life, the smell of new money, slipping between the sheets of a newly made bed, the pop of a spoon against a new jar of coffee and above all, the satisfying feeling that overcame her when a business question balanced. Altogether quite lost in her own thoughts, Emily Barrett was a freak.
He was, in every sense of the word, ordinary. Unspectacular in all aspects, everything from his appearance (brown hair clipped to an appropriate level above the ear) to his clothes (non-descript jeans to match his seldomly worn non-descript glasses) to his attitude (perfectly polite to attending adults, non-confrontational with his peers) attracted nothing more than an acknowledgement of his existence. Neither without flaw nor horrifically damaged, Alex Reddin was simply usual.
There was an arch acting as a gate to the park. It was a large arch, its grey colour darkening speckle by speckle as the lightest of raindrops fell on its surface. This, along with years of stone erosion, grafitti removal and chewing gum disposal, made the arch seem as alive as any of the blades of grass growing a metre from its base. These too were collecting droplets, inviting woodlice, beetles, slugs and snails out to play, drawn in by the growing humidity. The picturesque quality was soon disrupted by the cacophonous crunch of a twig underfoot a descending size seven blue kitten heel.
Her mother had questioned her footwear on leaving the house. Emily had failed to see the reasoning behind “saving her brand new shoes for a better day.” Shoes were shoes and these were pretty shoes. All the better for exploring the park in. Besides, one only saved things for a rainy day, and given the current weather conditions, she could scarcely think of anything more appropriate.
Not thirty minutes had gone by and the snails were met with a casualty. Amongst the dampening leaves, the shell of one had splintered on impact of a Nike trainer against its surface. With rain growing and camera in tow, Alex had barely heard the squelch of entrails against his shoes and decided to continue jogging. What a day for photography but he had felt inspired. As he left the house, the mist had seemed beautiful and the drops were not yet heavy enough to completely change his opinion. But he was still a sensible perosn and logic would have to prevail somewhat. If he could find shelter, his secret artisitic ambition might not be dampened.
The thing is
That even under a quilt
Of a coupling of months elapsed,
A shudder will still, with all persistence,
Grapple its way
To run a suggestive finger
Down my spine.
Wells, spin, company
Change quicker than the tides.
But I could be dead before I’m married.
No pleasantry can prove me wrong,
No insight cause an ebb,
You can scream in vain
But you won’t be heard above the haze inside my head.
The earth which gave bloom
To flowers of words, streams of consciousness,
Weeds of revelations
Is now salted.
—
I am aware of the reality
Yet summer is still in my proverbial prayers,
Hopes full of lengthening suns
And healing radiation.
—
Eventually, something must grow here again.
Even if it is nothing more
Than those strangling weeds.
The sharp bursts are fading,
The sodium wavelengths of fireworks
Slowly coaxed
Into the darkening sky.
Although the perpetual nag remains,
The pressure of his arms are loosening their grip
One more touch,
Her eyes are falling to these increasingly habitual
Solitary sleeping patterns,
Blue irises bright as they dart
To and fro
Through the potential possibilities,
The pangs once ever growing,
Gradually
Dulling to the mildest of thuds.
—
These are the facts.
I am over you.
Finished. Done. Complete.
—
But no cover can replicate your inescapable heat.
The exhalation, overstaying its welcome
Continues
To extend its goodbyes
As air taps it foot impatiently
In the porch of awaiting lips.
