The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.
Deep inside the tomb…
my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.
Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,
bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.
Sliding between the ceramic maze…
a hell to be razed.
Alas, the vow,
little do your tiny demons know,
it was written long ago,
upon a wall made of cork…
‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’
My Father used to say, peace be with you…
But it never was.
Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…
I had been taught ‘this is love.’
Father would shake my hand until life caught hold
Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.
My Father had sent me to deviant schools.
I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.
Funny, odd, queer, with its anger.
Ham fist-ed jokes never given in moderation.
Frisbee’s tight lipped and tainted black for playing at night.
Puns? A lead pipe to encourage all players to…think twice
The, I Was Only Joking, trophy, next to Home, Sweet, Home, place-mats, to adorn the holes in the wall.
Mad Jester, the biggest joker of us all.
Pastime of full contact Slap Jack.
Paperbacks left in the rain.
Simon Says, it is a never ending riddle.
Wisecracking those who wish to remain sane.
“If winter calls should I answer?” mother had asked.
Her words such as peeled back bark.
Earthy and sublime, a slow pouring wine.
The volume of her sentences were never said…in moderation.
It is four in the morning and I am awoken to hanging on.
What ground had just been broken?
How many more sleepless black and white moments, sullen and justified, would this go on?
Ashen, Irish, ashes all that was left in the morning.
When memories woke up.