I lied when i said i cried
i told you it hurt inside
it tore my chest apart
it burnt my eyes my soul
but all you did was make me die
give it to me raw
i’ll take it home
to the fire inside
i’ll burn it all
to leave the ash
and float so high
you leave me to lie
to wallow in my pain
the one i pretend to feel
where the tear
and a stain grows
and I can be
(C) Frank McGivney
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
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.
she smiled feeling the skin of her finger caress the palm of her waiting hand. Beyond the walls a man from Belfast sang a tune about a dance. The silver from the New York moon shone through the slit in the curtains tracing a line between their prone bodies splitting the bed in two equal parts, a jigsaw waiting to be pieced together in mutual desire. Somewhere a child with over eager lungs screamed for a mammy who was too drunk to care, a cat shimmied through an alley in the display of metal rubbish bins beneath the window, where their eyes sought the unquestioned answers of a lifetime of timid downcast smiles and whispered hellos.
The world of reality is left behind as the eyes drink the clearing fog of the place inside where dreams become words and fiction becomes your truth
this writing malarkey is fascinating. Doing it nearly a year and a half now and every day I learn new stuff.
The interesting for me the last few weeks is what happens when you add an extra dimension to a character and then rewrite what you had written previously.
It’s like a new world opens up, a more interesting one for the character to explore or in this case cause havoc.
I’m excited what this let sing curve will throw my way next.
There I was with the words on the page. The first attempts at a novel and the sentences were piled up and I had listened to the wisdom of writers and was trying to use it. Then one night you think that the boy who is the story needs to live in the shadows with a mind like my own but willing to follow his thoughts. And the story changes easily and although Im still only at the start of writing it I am really enjoying the whole experience. If no one else ever reads it then it doesn’t matter because I will have enjoyed reading it myself and along the way my mind has developed.
I think anyone who has any inclination should try it. I’m far from a good writer but that doesn’t matter it’s the experience that gives the therapy and healing not the finished product. And more importantly the fun.
If you took me as who I am rather than who you assume I am then your world would suddenly open to the infinite joy of discovering the reality of individual wonder