ASHES - A POEM

She materialised along a foggy riverside.

Stabbing stilettos echoed at the midnight hour.

She was distant at the feet of the clock tower,

Splashing through rain puddles, or maybe piss,

Or broken innocence on those deserted streets,

Where scowling policemen walked the beat.

She didn't answer when I called out her name,

Fading into the shadows of the cold sombre night,

Where memories remain like a stubborn flame,

When we used to dance underneath the city lights.

A flicker and flash took us to the past.

We sat together at a table in a corner,

In a place where everyone knew my face,

Amongst the last of the big time drinkers,

Who often witnessed my falls from grace.

She spoke of what she thought she knew,

For she couldn't grow into what she knew.

I recall the time I saw her by a fountain,

On a brisk autumn day in the city centre,

Where she was with a failed comedian.

I wasn't sure at first, but it was her,

With her smile withered away,

And all I could do was turn away.

I fell upon her name in a newspaper,

One white morning in the winter,

Sat by the window in that corner.

They found her in a land faraway,

Washed up on a bay under the sun,

After they killed more than her time.

I see her on the streets around here,

That form her presence back here,

Where she comes and disappears,

In moments as fleeting as life itself.

She comes and goes with the wind,

Which blows through these streets,

Whipping the flames of memories.
The fearsome fires flicker and flash.

Blazing, burning, they turn me to ash.

FRACTURED WORK OF ART - A POEM

Self-idolatry meets self-loathing.

My wistful eyes stunned frozen,

As I stare at the vaulted ceiling.

I recall the seagulls squealing,

On the brisk Lake Superior shore,

In simpler days of mild malaise,

Away from clubs and dance floors,

We grew tired of those summer days.

Sitting with my old friend, silence,

I recall her pleasant countenance,

Between reality and imagination,

In the woe of a fading stimulation.

Tender words drip from bloody lips,

Down the steps and into an abyss,

That swallows memories of bliss,

Then coaxes me in a writhing grip.

Flick of a wrist and kiss of a knife.

Stubborn hands commit the deeds.

Cowering with trembling knees.

Guiltless eyes close the windows,

To a chamber of rotting faces,

Tortured by a harrowing heart.

This body is a haunted place,

A fractured work of art.

THE LAST HOURS OF MONTY O'CONNOR - A POEM

The bells rung out in the night.

A mist hung over the ghastly sight.

A man limped in the alley light,

Coughing as he fell to his right.

O'Rourke and the lads stood grimaced,

Overcoats coated the hearts on their sleeves.

They pressed for answers Monty hadn't the slimmest,

For the pack of vigilant thieves.

They pulled Monty up and punched him loose,

Those memories and years of useless abuse,

He wished he could take back.

He gulped but wouldn't crack,

Hoped he could see them again.

Then told himself it wasn't in vain.

There was his wife - Sinead McCann,

The lovely lass he met in the rain,

At a bus stop one night by the Quays.

Brushed her hair and kissed in the breeze,

Too many more frightful moons ago.

A love so foolish to hold loose and let go.

His son Liam was ten-years-old,

Took the brunt and left in the cold,

After nights of drinks and fury.

His daughter Aisling wiped her eyes,

Fifteen-years-old and often chastised.

How Monty wronged them so,

He realised after another blow.

He fell to his knees and spat out a tooth.

Blood ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

He looked up at his old mate, Johnny,

Recalling the fun bloom of youth.

He could tell on his face it hurt,

Johnny fought to keep dry eyes.

O'Rourke aggressively lifted him,

“No more of these lies, Monty.”

I won't give up 'til I have the truth.”

“I don't know what you mean,

I don't know a fucking thing.”

Monty was honest but knew,

The fate O'Rourke's eyes drew.

Green and weathered all through,

Left Monty feeling awfully blue.

They took him out into the crisp woods,

Threw him down into the slippery dirt.

Small wind let trees sit still and lifeless,

Timeless eyes idle and baring witness.

Monty looked up at O'Rourke's haunting figure,

A stoic silhouette formed out of headlights.

The lads stood behind him in the shadows.

“This is your last chance,”

O'Rourke reached into his trenchcoat,

The silver caught Monty's bloodshot glance.

“Did you help the man who slit the gaffer's throat?

Who stole from the unfortunate of little wealth?

What do you have to say of yourself?”

“I did nothing at all,”

Monty begged but didn't ball.

He didn't have the strength to stand,

But refused to die a cowardly man.

“Just tell my family I love them.”

O'Rourke lifted the gun and stepped forward,

A solemn scene of tragedy Monty saw before.

He was battered, bloodied, left in ruins,

Kicked in the ribs and shot in the head.

Dropping to his knees was Johnny McGuinn.

A man should never see a friend shot dead.

O'Rourke struggled with a single tear,

Wiped it off and turned around aware.

Men had shovels and flashlights in hand.

They held their head up and kept quiet,

Stepped silently and to dig they began.

They left dear old Monty in that dirt pit,

Then carried on without a heart's content.

IN THE CATACOMBS - A POEM

Dizzy, dazed, in the catacombs I wandered,

My aching being had been taken possessed.

I tripped on aborted fetuses and needles,

Discarded, faded, and worn-away postcards,

Of exotic lands, toxic smiles, then reminisced,

A time when I thought this was love.

Lost in the twists and turns of the catacombs,

Seeking the one who had me possessed,

Falling over skeletons and a mare's nest,

Broken bottles stuck shards in my flesh.

Lapsing, I screamed their screams enmeshed,

Clasping onto when I thought this was love.

My eyes gazed with deep amaze at the bones,

Which lined the walls of the catacombs,

Confined home of the one who possessed.

The skulls stared back with empty sockets,

Told me that I am what they once were,

They are what I will be if I don't leave,

The deplorable love I once believed.

A hectoring voice rattled the chambers,

Called my name from out of nowhere.

I jolted up and stood there in silence,

Then turned with a curious hesitance.

There I stood, toe-to-toe with the one,

The figure that had taken me possessed.

Their eyes took guise to my very own.

Facial features that resembled my own.

Their body took a shape like my own.

Their hair could compare to my own.

In a voice that sounded like my own,

They proclaimed forcibly to be mine.

We screamed our screams enmeshed,

Lost forever in the catacombs.