Category Archives: Reading

Talking to the Junkies

The white of the clouds is lying on the ground and you have a hoodie on and wrapped around that a caridgan with a hood and you forgot your cotton socks and the extra thick ones  from pennys are wearing thin and your mind is wandering and the times they are a changing.

but not for you or others just for some. Somewhere out there over the rainbow where the sun shines and the frost melts, a man with no goats or attachement to the land or the sea is singing a song he heard somewhere that goes “the mad ones never forget”. The girl on the bus beside him asks how to get of but he cant remember and the crowd sings waltzing matilda

so

he screams

and

she screams

and

the bus man roars and all at once there was crowd, a host of junkies on the quay.

they have held hands through it all. from the start to the end from him shitting in the bed to her doing the same. they have given their bodies to the brown and we walk by in disgust and once i said hello to them and he sneered and she winked and i wanted to tell them i didnt care if they stuck brown crap in the veins, no more than i didnt care if i am talking to a judge or a priest. but they didnt want to know no more than those others wouldnt want to know either. The identify their souls with who they tell themselves they are but all i see is the eyes and the skin and the mind and the thoughts

i’m selfish. I want to hear their stories, to laugh at the madness of their tales. the ones they tell once they give over with the sadness and the self pity. She would have been a ride in her day before it took it over. He was as ugly as fuck and dangerous looking in his wee skinny intimidating way.

the world passes on

 

And i apologise for not posting since 2016. more to me than to anyone else. I write at home on a laptop and few if any see it. The words are my friend and the sentences when  poetic my lovers and sometimes of an spring day they are hard to share because maybe no one else will embrace them the way i do but then i dream and i realise the truth of a butterfuly being only truely majestic when it flies free.

Too late

It’s too late for writing poetry and the time for prose had passed by with the closing of your eye lashes and the yawning of your mouth. You sit facing the screen wanting to go to bed but hear words hold you in place. You wonder why you do the things you do. The clandestine things of love and lust , of procrastination and laziness. But yet all around the birds sing a merry tune to the silence of my discontent. The priest has lost its grip . The ages of youth have passed me by laughing in contempt at my folly and I smile for all beyond that wall is full of wonder and joy

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Brooklyn

I finished Factotum by Charles Bukowski last night. One of the best books I have ever read, so different from anything else I have read. I looked up and there was Colm Tobin’s Brooklyn looking back at me from the shelf calling me to read it. Ah well I wlaways do what i am told so its the next one. I still reading Jo Nesbo’s new book “Son ” at same time its typical detective story nice for some easy reading and bit of fun.  I like Jo Nesbos stuff. I find it a lot bit than most detective ones which can be a bit predictable at times brooklyn.

Reading

Charles Bukowski now that’s a man who could write. No political correctness or bullshit just hard living drinking whiskey , working his way through women and jobs. I reading factotum at the moment. I want to write

like him, maybe a novel that gets banned but then becomes a cult classic. Something Irvine Walsh would be proud of but set in the land of Ireland among the squalor and the pain.

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To write a novel where sunsets are seen through darkened curtains and moonlight nights are lost in bars and whorehouses spilling liquor and loving women