aRoomForImprovement.com

While most of what I write becomes a part of my visual arts projects, I will from time to time post poems, songs, passages of prose and text experiments here for consideration in isolation.

#1(020909)

It never rains but it pours...

That prase was not coined in my country.

Maybe on the Mediteranian,

Or in Scandinavia or Central Europe

But not in Ireland.

It always rains

But seldom pours.

It spits, it mists, it drizzles,

It showers, it spots, it pisses

and, sometimes - it pours.

This land is suited, certainly

To those who awaken every morning, thankful for the day that's in it

While at the same time always seizing upon any little thing to gripe about.

You're up and down but neither really.

You're dry and you're drowning but just damp in the end.

A people made from rainbows – a people mixed out to grey.

I'll go out now and get soaked.

It's been pouring all day.

I've nowhere to go.

I'm down the country – convalecing.

I'll go out now, how and ever – just to get soaked.

Proper rain – wild and irritating at first,

Like an obnoxious drunk

But at some point – when you're finally soaked through

And your cloths offer no protection for anything but your modesty -

Maybe you'll start to enjoy it.

Slaps of sudden wind, sending rain pelting against the side of your face -

And your body if your modesty is not an issue with you -

Turn to kisses and tickles -

Teasers of Nature's power and playfulness

And you want more.

Deeper kisses – lingering caresses.

You want a flood of Nature's love where Nature dictates the expression of that love.

You'll happily be dragged into a maelström -

A thousand kisses deeper than this down pour -

Even if it kills you.

#21 (07/09/09)

Yes the future is bright, my friends,

As if the sun were about to explode.

Howl, howl, howl now -

Howl into the hole!

#19 (07/09/09)

On my idyllic (would be) forest walk,

By the fungus encrusted stump

Of an old dead tree,

The empty packaging

Of Mc Donalds and Durex.

Two cardinal sins there -

Glutony of course

And protected sex.

Two milkshake cups -

One medium, I believe,

And one small.

Two cheese burgers it looks like

And two fries.

Two freshly used condoms,

And their red wrappers; ultra thin.

A few old boxes of extra safe -

The bin bag type, with the spermicidal lubricant in.

The head becomes less sensitive,

Anon, anon,

After rubbing out the dozen or so

Easy ones

And according to that fast food giant,

The whole mess

Was thirsty fun.

#25 (08/09/09)

The world is full of rejection.

Solid objects, like magnets,

Both poles of which seem set to repel me.

Sometimes I try to run.

Sometimes I lunge.

Standing a few steps back with this lens

To look through,

It seems I can see,

Not solid objects

But space.

The space between atoms

In all these solid objects

Is more than the volume

Of the atoms themselves.

There are really no objects then,

Only all of us, our atoms,

Mingled loosly in broad open space -

All one – all apparant objects – all races.

This should perhaps cheer me

Were it not now so obvious

That all this is my fault.

I reject myself.

Looking away from the spire.

We have great respect for the man.

Yeats gushes from the concrete,

Twisted into the song of a swan – we knew him then.

Oscar Wilde smiles gayly back at you.

He was gay you know!

And he saw you.

There are a million more miles to go

And a million minds to know,

A million notes to take,

A million roads.

Two down there now in one go -

I took a wrong turn.

I never believed in magic as a child.

Not that kind of magic anyway -

Those tricks and illusions.

I believed in that magic

That was always there.

I eyed every face and body that passed me by

Pushed my hands down into the dirt

And turned pebbles around in my mouth.

Looking at a painting as a child

Never gave me anything.

Quite completly uninspiring -

But the feeling of my little fingers around a wax crayon

And the taste of poster paint

The stacking of pebbles into tiny towers.

That was magic.

I can't stand to be here.

I'm leaving.

I can't stand getting away.

I can't stand getting away.

I believe in gold, I believe in hay.

I know all about orios and minute maid

But I could never dare to have a taste.

Dying to move like a California surfer

Or a Sligo surfer

But dying, you see

And moving like an old man.

Moving out – moving down.

A broken, twisted, crooked old clown.

I'm not going anywhere.

Sooner I was gone.

I'm not going anywhere.

Yes you became another you

and i became another me

i changed my name and you got a degree

the little things that made you

so fucking great

and the little issues that me hated and hate

they're still here and there

i can see them clear

i believe i can change

and you are a constant force, you'll always remain

the same

i talked to a doctor

and you refused

because you were hurting no one but you

i got addicted

and you did too

to things that could put us at a distance from truth

but it's still there

i can see it clear

i believe i can change

and truth is a constant force, it always remains

the same.

You took your memory

and squashed it like a fly

i took a handful of pills and i died.

The following is a text experiment from the development of TheForger...The formatting is done this way so that, when turned into a pdf file and read aloud by Adobe Acrobat Reader, it has a particular rhythm. A sketchy video including this text as read aloud by this program and stretched and pitch-shifted with Audacity can be found underneath.

And the sound.

travels faster.

than

the light.

I can't

catch up to it.

I.

caught.

the

light.

I.

caught.

the

light.

I'm at sea on the shelf.

I'm

looking

out.

I conceal myself in the room now.

I'm.

looking.

in.

i need the room.

.

.

I need to improve it.

All the trees are gone.

And the ground is made of tile.

And through the whole in the wall.

I can see for miles.

.

.

The sea isn't always yellow.

The sky isn't always green.

A moment isn't always for forever.

The breeze always gets in.

...again

The breeze ways gets in again.

The breeze always gets in.

.

.

and the sound isn't always faster.

Than light.

I can't catch up to it.

.

I caught the light.

.

.

I caught the light.

.

.

I caught the light.

.

.

I caught the light.