Saturday, 27 December 2014

A warrior awaits...

A shadow cast on eight, the sides of test and tradition;
A warrior awaits.
Darkness, strobes, music and noise;
The change in tune, the tact in tone, always calm.

Emerging in strides, superior and significant;
Bare skinned, bearded, braided and born.
Tattooed and untainted, capped and comfortable;
a celebration of confidence and indulgence in honour.

A right hand raised, an emblem to roars;
the approval all round answers acceptance to accolades.
The face of focus; fuelled, ferocious and physical.
Relaxed and relishing raucousness', a revelling renewed in expected conquest.

Surrounded by stalwarts, saluting strength in their standing;
the goal always glorious, the going a grateful gift.
A fighter famed on feeding fiercely on the fallow; a freak of fearlessness inside the fence.

The pride pronounced previous to participation, a publicity in positivity and persistence;
A prize proudly personal and a promise to     his own person.

Bold and brash, a champion challenging collective conclusions of characters contained.

The tribal triggering, tastefully targeting those testing the temperament;
trials always trumpeted, a top flight performer present not to take part, but only to take over.

Inspiring, the self-respected ruthlessness that raises rancour;
Rushing relentlessly in triumph, an Irish artist, flawless, fine-tuned and firm. 

Sweating in supremacy, selfishly succumbing to the stalks of success;
second to none in notions that nurture the needs of a nation,
No nonsense negotiations; 'I will win. I will win'.

The calculated carnage, the bellows of belief;
The narrow aisles, the path to righteous inevitably.

A warrior awaits, but not in the shadows.
The beaming light with 8 sides around him;
Ready, zealous and namely, Notorious.


Monday, 22 December 2014

I am me...

14 and unfree, chosen chains chasten character. 'The leader' longs to lambast the liking lovingness that lingers through my heart for others.
Beaten by bullies with a fist full of names; powerfully pounded by punches of insults. My internal inquest; investigating the inklings of identifying in earnest the true meaning of myself.
Questions, no answers. Hate hovers and holds heavy in my head. More questions, still no answers.
Fear follows frantically, furrowing and folding the freedom of facing friends. The flames of fantasy found in falsely feeling favourite. Please let me be liked.
They justify their judgments through jargon and juvenile joyfulness. Me just being me the jewel of their jest as I juggle  jibes and jokes that are far from funny.
Taken twofold by arms of anger as I'm ordered to lick piss from the floor; taken threefold at my talkback. I'm thrust by the temple towards the tin; my teeth are taken out. Their thunder throbs my thoughts and all.
Their laughter lives loud as I lay lame in length on the floor. Blood bellows, red and running, ruining my outside and in.
Bent, bruised, bloodied and beaten. Belief banished and my brain blackened by blame. This is my fault for being me.
I succumb. Let me sleep. You win.
14 and free, I straighten my spine and stern my shoulders. The sense of inner strength. Spirits soar as I stride these streets.
My music is me. Magical and moving; my mood manipulated at Marley's message: 'every little thing is gonna be alright'.
Rightfully revelling in resilience and resolve, as lightning strikes my run towards life.
Positive posture, posing public in proudness. A picture of persistence, personifying my personal placement amongst the crowd.
I stand on the shoulder of myself, shouting in success: "get up off the floor". I am me; leaning in love and longing to live. 1-0 up with a million to go.
Bullies, blaggards and burglars of esteem; the power of my person, a shield of strength shrugging your suggestions that you scream to shake my soul. Feisty and fired up in my findings of figuring the finesse of faith in oneself.
I am me. Tall and not taken. A character unchained. Justified not a joke. Loved and loving. I succumb to life. I'm wide awake. I win


Saturday, 13 December 2014

Til death do us part

The other guests have gathered, already comfortable and cosy. My arrival is subtle and silent. I'm welcomed through a varicoloured haze of satin and velvet as the girls catch all eyes.

They laud in veils and hats, dresses of great shade and tailor and heels of great height and shine.

The men look polished and groomed; ties and shoes of varied degree with grey and dark ensembles the common choice of uniform.
There's grins and glee aplenty; restless elation amongst a passionate people, all present and sharing the love and life of the newly-weds.

The conversations unfold; spiels on style and comments on culture. Gossip and rumour exchanged in pleasant and upbeat demeanor. There's coffee cups filled and champagne glasses emptied, each beverage shared with eats, both sweet and savoury.

The murmur of patrons, warm and wondrous. Their laughter reverberates, hording the great hall. The grizzled limestone surroundings tightly pillared from all four sides towards the white and gold marble above. The domed ceiling, incredible superiority in architectural purity, brought together by a marvellous crystal chandelier that dangles luminous upon the guests and wooden floor below.

A pianist plays in the key of family and friends bonding in chinwag anarchy. Laughter and stories, catch ups and formalities, a happy time.

"Doesn't she look stunning?" A statement of intent that requires my thoughts on the bride. The smiling bride. She swans beautifully beneath the crystal light tincture, her movement immaculate and graceful, a serene cloud floating in warm white between and beyond her guests.

She's beautiful. But she cannot take away from my own get up for the day which is equally impressive. The carefully chosen mask I've worn that provides
a smile. The humour I've hired that shows contentment and happiness. The body language I've bought that pretends I want to be here. Should anyone enquire as to my wellbeing, I'm fully prepared with deep pockets full of fiction and fable to ensure that the vision of my life at present is one of great ambition and desire.

I mingle and mix when its required, acknowledging in false approval my  peers own promise of progression and pride in life; confirmation of further engagements, houses brokered and bought, babies on the way. I smile at their stance, but cry inside as I succumb once again to my own self-hate and loneliness.

A moment in late afternoon is lost as I stare in abandoned regard at nothing. My empty intent is distracted pleasantly by the allure and elegance of her dainty frame. A bridesmaid cut in emerald green, a silk curtain fitted and flowing in decency and triumph around her as she manoeuvres barefoot around decorated tables and chairs.

She moves in several directions but slowly, an empress of reverie whose looming shadow grows. Her long brown hair a flawless platted rope sitting gentle over her left shoulder. Her eyes glow in peaceful meddlesomeness, two circled ornaments of jewel blue awake under spectacular lashes and thinned brows.

A glance in my direction followed by a half smile from her painted lips suggests she sees beneath my mask and fathoms my lifes intricacies.

My stomach whirls in response to her indisputable bloom. I like her. Perhaps beneath the flames of my own flaws and self-loathing, there's a desire to love and live.

Maybe I could talk to her? Young girls have problems too, she might understand.

I shake my head, acceptance and convincement against the speculation that such a gentlewoman would ever like someone like me, such nonsense. My deprivation in living would never be inflicted on someone so pure.

These glorious notions subside by choice, I catch a clear view of myself in the mirror. I see everything. The trousers and blazer; black and dark like my everlasting mood. A shirt as white as the light I think I'll see once the noose tightens around my neck and a tie as red as the blood that may spill from my wrists when all is said and done.

Depression and me; til death do us part.

Monday, 1 December 2014

To the backdrop of 1000 heartbeats...

June 1996

The bell rang and school was finished. Liberated in body, but not in mind. Chained and still captive, ‘the leader’ owned me in the summer months too.

The days and nights gave way to games and loitering; football and ambling. The longer evenings a platform for finer youthful shenanigans, playing out until the later hours. As the sun lowered and twilight became, the old stables were a wonderful setting for lost boys to intrude and explore. Perfectly hidden in its entirety behind a great grey wall. To the left, a hinged entrance stood tall; a black steely gate, magnificent in capacity. The ideal challenge for dirty hands and legs to overcome. The gravel ridge three feet from the floor provided the easiest starting point to boost the climb the top. Then came the bolted U-lock; the next stage in angling a solid leverage up and over.

One by one we scaled to break an entry. The leader always went last: ‘I’ll keep watch in case someone comes’. A single street light cast an amber hue of subtleness across the darkening yard. We whispered and wondered about what game to play. ‘The leader’ said that ‘hide and go seek’ was the game of choice.

A splendid stage with hay bales and horseshoes; traps and carriages; barns and sheds. Six bolted doors, half and half, beautiful animals known to be grey, black and brown sheltered inside. Our feet trampled the dry straw rigged against the tarmac. The mystery and sensation, a maze of adventure in this forbidden courtyard under an empty sky. There was perplexity all around; bunkers for breeding; hovels for cleaning; troughs for food and water.

But one shed in the corner haunted me. A castle of intimidation. No amber shade reached this point; far away from horses that were heard, but never seen. The castle was small but huge. Black doors rusted and pinned with continuous shudder. One window pane to the side which was coaled and unclear, thin and veiled in dust and shadows. No view in and no view out. It was powerful. The castle pulled reigns and placed blinkers, I was scared.

The game unravelled and my turn to count came quickly. Face the pole with both hands over your eyes and count to 10. I counted. ‘1.…2.…3.…’  the silence broken by howls from the young, footsteps and shouting. Feet slammed the ground in quick succession, like racehorses gunning for the finish line. I was the finish line: “GRAB HIS HANDS” “GRAB HIS LEGS”.

Exciting screams led by ‘the leader’, all getting louder as I squirm like an animal trapped behind a door. I’m face down, fluttering in panic as I look to the ground. Pulled and dragged and kicked. I scream. I cry. They laugh and laugh louder. I'm suppressed to the backdrop of 1000 heartbeats. I don‘t like it. The more I resist the harder they pull, the harder they kick.

“Open the door quick”. The castle door creaks open. I get thrown and released, like a jockey thrown from a horse. BANG! The castle doors are closed. Darkness. Blackness. The bolted lock closed in my aftermath as their laughter grows. They bang on the door. They bang on the windows. I can’t see. It’s small. It’s dark. The stench. Oil and diesel I think. I might go on fire. I could die. I'm frightened. I bang hard on the door. I bang harder. My eyes are closed. I can’t see even when they’re closed. Tears stream. “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT” LET ME OUT!” I'm shaking. I'm scared.

“If you stop shouting we’ll let you out ye fat cunt” I stop shouting. The laughter and commotion subsides, footsteps lesson. They’re walking away. Where are they going? Let me out. I can’t move because I can’t see. They’re gone. They’ve left me. I’m scared.

My bitten nails file the steel, eyes water and flutter. Heavy breaths. Very heavy breaths. Dark clouds lower, demon dogs of desolation emerge from the blackness. Walls of worriment close on in. The panic animals attack; biting, scratching, tearing away at every breath. Archfiends of angst crushing my chest and breast. Heavy breaths. The prevention pulls me, tight around my ribs and torso. Brutes of botheration poking eyes and holding breaths. “I can’t breath’. The messyrs of misery prod and protrude through all that is already disturbed. Unwished away to an unknown place. A suffocating sauna of silence and stillness. Celled and chained in the invisible embers and fires that burn, chafing and charring the rational of straight thought and innocence.