Archived Thoughts&Things

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I have decided this New Year’s Eve not to make any more resolutions and in so doing have made yet another resolution, or so that is how the joke goes. Well, come the bells I wasn’t eating grapes – I don’t live in Spain anymore – , I wasn’t singing Old Lang Syne – though I tried, I was shushed by my Hungarian family who had all arisen from their pre-midnight-layabout to the glory of their national anthem – but I was sipping Champagne, or at least some Cava and Pezsgo, and I was enjoying the localised fireworks displays  which have come to signify suburbia, I guess everywhere these days.

What else? Well, some eighteen hours later and sitting here typing this, I realise there is nothing left to say. I had some grandiose notion to record an emotion but that was thwarted some hours ago by responsibility. Do I expect 2015 to be better than 2014? Why should I? The date, the change is merely numerical. Surely for most people the difference between today and yesterday is the hangover, the memory of the shameful deeds  done while under the influence, the lost expectations, but beyond that this day, a Thursday, is no different to yesterday, or any other Thursday really. Then what is left to surmise concerning all things new and glorious? Nothing!


Pass the Bottle

Pass the Bottle


The very frustrations which can nightly arise when battling my four-year-old over sleeping duties pale, usually, in comparison to the joy which she brings. That she has just sat up again from her sleeping poise raises the shackles, especially when she demands her right to speak. “I am trying to work” I tell her and have made it a compromise that I do some of it here in her room. The classical music plays in the background, a Youtube selction meant for sleep, but perhaps I chose the adult selection for my kid is certainly no closer to her slumberation. That she commands another assault just now forcing me to play my own guilt cards, only serves to heighten the tensions on the Bedside Parallel. I go back to my typing, realising that the tappitty tapping will soon be used as an excuse to be awake, only that I have worked here many times before and she has nodded off without so much as a protestation. It is Christmas, and we are in Nagyi’s, and this definitely has something to do with it, but the fact that last year I signed up for some How to Get Your Kid to Sleep newsletter would suggest that this is more than a minor technical difficulty: this has, in fact, become a lifestyle.

The other terrorist has been placated but promises to erupt past the witching hour with plaintive tones that would set all the devils below a tad off kilter. Hell may have no fury like…some woman, or other, but here ón this blessed Earth it’s the wee ones that win the day, and night, their very shrieks calling out beyond the confines of a humanity: they are the very driving force that must surely render any universe, ours included, and THEY do not rest ón the seventh day. I’m not even sure they rest at all. Even in their sleep I imagine they are racing headlong into furniture, eating razor blades, and making dogs very very nervous: all the while being called cute by those fucking visitors…yeah, you know who you are. You don’t think we haven’t noticed you beginning to back out the door from the very moment you have been invited in. The lack of space ón the coat rack which may have led you to be insulted because the back of a chair had to suffice, now seems a blessing in disguise. Imagine trying to excavate any article of clothing from under that pile there a-hanging…or worse, what if you had taken up the offer of having your jacket put in the bedroom…UPSTAIRS! Run you miserable bastards and don’t bother coming back again to make such contrivedly concerned comments such as “Aren’t you a bit cold?” to a four year old who can tell the difference, and especially when inside the flat it’s 22 degrees celsius, even if it is sub-zero outside. Perhaps, and I’m not suggesting you are dying, but if you are feeling a little chilly maybe it’s cos you is already dead!!! So zombie yourself the hell out of here and leave me to my two little Síoga, and my woman, who is at this moment out there in the demilitarised zone, soaking up the glow of the nonsense that is TV Landia, a state I am aspiring to once I’ve finished this.



Me too

Me too



I had skinned knuckles once too.
I even tried to express this as significant;
It wasn’t, anymore than I was,
in the sense that I was me.
I had the marks of brutality upon me,
they remained long after any sense of bravery.
If you display yours to an intimidation,
remember I did that and I know what lies beneath.
If, however, you pick at these in shame,
like somehow they are wrong for you,
like somehow you are better than these scabs,
then I have nothing to work with –
dare I judge?
I’d judge thee, judgement being… what?
A penchant you might say.
I have tonight tried to contradict myself
but it’s so much easier to believe the fallacy,
so much easier to reason to your passions
than to the core of fact itself.
Half-informed I’ll rage in dreams
against the dying of our rights
but if ever proved I will not stand against the foe
as I perceived it,
and therefore vacant,
I may as well
stand for nothing!



Just In That Moment

Just In That Moment


Ding dong one witch is dead

and another scales the closet

and hurls abuse from up on high

at all of you below.

Ding dong what’s wrong, revolution’s dead

it’s with O’Leary raping Darwin’s ghost.

The future is a certainty but the past is unexplored.

The mode, the chicish mania

soon will be our shame

new morals, lies, define them such

will amount to much the same…



Keeping A-head

Keeping A-head

I race against the bitterness.

I’m just ahead –

it’s catching.

I’ve grown to recognise – yet

I’m still quite prone to it.

It’s easier sometimes, I guess,

not to keep the darkness in check.

It’s wiser to observe, I know,

I’ve done this too, many times before.

But drink, and this shall be the key,

it makes me strong but leaves me weak.

I’ll build again a resevoir,

then pull the plug as oft before.

I’ve tried, I’ll try, and conjure on.

Till death – the parting,

and my swan song.


In response

In response

To further answer your question: I’m standing at the river bank in the sunshine. It’s hard not to love this city, and my mobile job, at a time like this. I have, however, stood on this spot many’s the time in another mood, with nothing but hatred in my heart!



It is, quite!

It is, quite!



It’s quite possible that I see things differently to everybody else,
that I see danger at the corner cos it there resides.

That I see cheaters, schemers,, dreamers, in the words of rhetoric,
that I cannot believe in anything – but myself.
It’s quite possible that I see everything just like everybody else
but we’ve been lied to long enough so as to not even believe ourselves.
And in comparison where common ground is found
we are often made suspicious, even made to doubt-
for we must all be different and-
then be judged as though we’re not?




It Could Be Anywhere


It could be Ireland but for the snow that comes in drifts, light flakes deceptive.
The green grass muddied once more encased,
and Spring entombed, perhaps,
so what comes next.


The rising cheer has so soon abated, as mother nature holds her breath.
Allowing still the chilling fingers caress the shrinking countryside once again.


Those tired of darkness they beg for Springtime,
the blossom’s mercy, the rose’s promise.
Blood on the carpet green, yellow, pink – exciting,
now all abounding with whitish sheen.


Little diamonds, slivers, pearing down in string-like curtains;
sending silence across the thoughts –
the land once more is sleeping.


Beneath, the street, ensnared only by our own vain wishes,
with city light and city surface,
sets cars heaving past hellbent on murder:
Their spring fizz slushed again in sludging cleanliness.
What’s left of autumn now is surely gone.


The blackened leaves tattoo the quiet streets
worn inky thin they’d stain like tarmac melt-
That once upon a knee in jeans attired.
Why? With such heat? Why, with youth, of course!


Contending here again with the damp, the chill, the beast
As another false alarm is trodden down.
Traffic moves again in lumbered, measured, plod.
What of the coming Spring?
Perhaps it never comes!



In Life As In Love

In Life As In Love

We are all characters in somebody else’s book as well, as I in theirs, they are in mine, and so the cycle completes itself, the gentle interweave of thoughts and images; we are all still characters in someone else’s book, and she, for what it’s worth, was in mine.

It all began, as any story does, but when exactly is such a vagary that all I’ll say is it all began sometime before this, sometime, as you’d expect, in the past, seeing as any story must have its linearity to some degree.

When he heard her speak for the first time, she spoke English, but it could have been French, it was so heavily inflected. As it happened, after that she did, as they both did try French together with varying degrees of success. She spoke as she had to, he, as he wanted to, and this would come to define everything that they were.

She dressed simply, almost the prude, he drew his inspiration from rebellion: he dared to be different. She wore her hair short, cropped, a very conservative style. He left grow grow long, and somewhat unkempt. He had an image conveyed by his exterior. His interior it was that would finally betray him.

As they passed each other, met each other, chatted to each other, they found a path between them that dared to intertwine. She had smiled freely from the start but now he noticed the light in her eyes, he presumed a recent phenomenon, brought on by his own presence. He, too, felt a smile gain purchase on his face, and had even dared to think differently.
„If only she would be mine.”

One day followed the next into a framework of unfettered change. She became more sensual, more illustrious; he assumed, too, that she had begun to notice the change in him, for hadn’t he just then passed a witty remark. How intelligent he must seem. Beneath the veneer of apathy a man troubled with such existential matters truly existed.

One day became another and he built her up into the graven image of his thwarted soul, she would be the one to save him, redeem him- for whatever he had done, he had done wrong. She would be his right, his innocence; she would be the one to teach him love. “Oh sweet rebellious heart, that you may be salved by the unguent of my deepest love!” He thought, indeed, that she would matter.

One day not unlike another, busying himself with his indifference, trying to remain inconspicuous, he had spotted her in a crowd. She hadn’t even noticed him. He dared to think she didn’t care. She just hadn ‘t noticed him, but why? Perhaps it wasn’t even her, but it was. His tiny heart knew it. The flowers late in bloom made to shed their petals. He approached in his casual way. „Were those laughs for me?”, as he passed a table full of stangers.

“Hi, how are you?” the faintest whisper, his all alluring mystery.

“Hi. Who are you?” the abundant reply.


One day, like another, just passed by, just kept on going without a care. No need to stop, no need to pause, to reflect. Just on and on. Day after day, week after week. Life crumbled into an infinite void, no longer relevant. For she hadn’t even recognised him, not even after he had explained himself. She had been so cool; he the frigid fool, rendered inert. He had tried to be witty. She had smiled politely, then left. The next time she had come to the bar she had had an escort, 3 men, as if protection was necessary.

He didn’t know why. He hadn’t even noticed her. She meant nothing anymore. He would swear he had never thought of her again. And yet she would remain a part of his story as he a part of hers. His pain: that she had played her part well while he remained in hers just an extra, unnoticed, forgotten. He had even forgotten himself.



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