Yuppa
Young Unique People Persuing Anything
Micheál's Poetry
Carrowkeel, December 21st
Seated
in the presence of gods
a world rages without;
Eye of the storm
speckled
sporadic
vacuums.
The same prayer echoes
through those empty halls –
the same hypocrite
prostrates and crawls
Begging
for better-ness
Fettered
yet fetter-less
Wondering at Their cold, stony silence
not knowing he is the instrument of fate
the instrument of change.
But pray on, she does
worship, our drug. I revel in it.
A light erupts from the tomb;
Parallel
in Paradox.
Maids search through the bog in darkness;
I wait above.
They search not for quickening of womb
but quickening of mind.
Inspiration.
Fertility comes in many forms.
Anthropomorphic abstractions.
Now it comes to fruition.
I know not what I search for –
But I hear, (lapping,) on faraway shore –
the sounds of battle bygone
and battle yet to come.
A deep, booming dread
Aforethought and aforesaid
The Plain of Towers has yet to see its final fight.
Perforations
A light
pierces the church bay window
Soft, blurring colours
cradle the altar in bioluminescence
(Blues and violet enigmas
heavenly choir humming in lull)
Screaming in agony,
The bishop disrobes
Chastising us for stealing the fruit from His orchard
Children as we are
Song of Stone
Star battalions appear to herald the coming night,
Dew beads on the grass as shards of dying light,
The mist approaches, whispering softly, like a spirit’s breath,
And the stones stand tall around me, those who cheated death.
Sentinel and silent, guardians of the land,
Made in primordial fires, raised by ancient hand,
Their roots go deep, memories deeper, lost in bygone age,
Their power goes back to creation, crafted by god and mage.
What was your purpose, megalith, in pagan times of old?
An altar of the sun perhaps, once wreathed in shining gold,
Do Diarmud and Grainne lie here, locked in eternal embrace?
Or does Mac Cuill here sleep, last king of the fairy race?
For Tara’s halls are silent,
The Danaan have fled to the sea,
But the stones stand ever waiting,
Silhouettes of eternity.
Keltoi (The Flow, and its Precipice – Part One)
The storming sound of hooves
Outward and outward
Spiralling, the senseless spread
Inching ingenuity in ignorance
Enhancing the erotic in ecstasy
Expanding, ever outward
Many a time the Tiger fell
amongst ruin, lashing its tail in ire
Hyperinflation choking the air
Replication is the vessel of our people.
Bulging to the edge
The proud eagle, yet to fledge
Give. Take. Conquer. Replicate.
Love. Lust. Die. Duplicate.
(The Ebb, and its Reversal – Part Two)
The Wave came without warning;
Eyes looking inward, fade to indifference.
New blood beckons – the slow seed
O’ercome to cultivation.
The roar came from all corners
Searing us to sinders
We had not the immunity of the cultivated.
The wave left as quick as it came
When we opened our eyes
Our brothers had vanished
New men stepped to shore
As the red water receded
We stumbled to our feet, battered and broken
And we were trapped
Yet still, we did not see
We do not see
We are the last of them.
Silenced sisters and brothers
Stumbling in the dark
A Twilight worth celebration?
With the sea to our backs
And swords to our throats
We stand, slowly
Hand in hand
Shoulder to shoulder,
The pride of a thousand empires, never cultivated –
Memory, our crucible. Fluidity is the form of our people.
Hand in hand
Shoulder to shoulder
Broken.
Battered.
Bruised.
A song erupts from our lips
One of mourning
One of ignorance
One of hope. Hope. Hope. (We shall not resign to fortune’s ebb and flow. We shun it.)
A warcry of rebirth
A shout of incarnation – (our days of ebb fall away)
Hand in hand
Shoulder to shoulder
I present
The Fringe
Ring Finger
She pulled out at Rialto
Doors creaking open
Swinging her pride before her;
Phallic obscenity.
The children babbled and cooed
Raised fists of the proletariat
Unspoken signals.
All the while –
He and her made fleeting eyes
Over the pulsing mass of flesh;
A fleeting smile – gone.
Her vacuum quickly filled,
Her scent forgotten.
Onto James’.
“Get out.” Screamed the child.
“Get off.”
His eyes never left the doors.
A voice worn and withered.
“Nextstop” he promised.
Heuston.
“Get off”.
“Get out”.
“Nextstop”.
Jervis.
“Get out”.
“Get off”.
“Nextstop”.
World-wearied vivacity.
Sex, shame and sacred icons.
His ring finger twitched
Bare nakedness
Obscene.
Abbey Street.
My stop.
His eyes never left the doors; smiling sadly
Nextstop never came.