Sport

I think the stadium housing a sports' event, should be the domain of sport and nothing else, a place of brotherhood and understanding, a place of fair play, good feeling and spirit among the assembled. Once you start introducing politics, you create division, which is contrary, I believe to the whole idea and ethic of sport. Sport should be a uniting force, and a sporting event should be a celebration of humanity. In my country Ireland, I believe we have this with Gaelic games.

Memory Foam Pillow

Bought a memory foam pillow today, and as I was waiting in the queue at Penney's in O'Connell Street, I happen to ask the lady behind me if she had ever used one, and she said, 'I have, and I felt like it sucked the blood out of me.' Sleep should be interesting tonight then.

Media Gods

Just about had it, with the highlighters of social injustice, who offer nothing in reply. When you take it down to an interpersonal level, our relationships are imperfect, as our lives are, and as life itself is.

Eyes

Eyes, they speak, and when the voice has spoken, it thinks sometimes and it regrets, but the eyes they speak, and sometimes they search, and other times they are inverted, these are the thinking eyes of contemplation, and eyes determine the countenance, they are decisive and the most alive part, this is where the truth dwells, waiting to be interpreted understood, they can be quieted and stilled, and they may also be on fire, but they are never free of expression, and sometimes they may laugh, and at other times they may cry, when they have beheld too much, more than they could have wished to see, and then these eyes are oppressed, and recline, into darkness, and they can speak of care and they can speak of love, and then they can overwhelm another pair of eyes, they are the truth of soul, when soul needs to be expressed in a visual way, so you look into the eyes, and then you see.

Strength

Showing to me the weakness in your aggressive strength, and the volume of speech in which you care to express it with, but alas also a show of weakness, and I wonder if the real strength is held in silence, and in its understanding and compassion, and in love.

Breaking Down

Thought that it was 'breaking down' suggesting some desperation, some despair, and I remembered the strength within, and that it doesn't break down, so easily, so readily, no matter the provocation, the excuse, and then the picture of things being imperfect entered the image, and my mind was full of wondering and questioning, and then I remembered the person that I am, and how far I am divorced from self pity, and everywhere from my vision, is just a place apart, looking perhaps for my connection with it, refusing poverty, and working toward the higher place of mind, life has to be addressed, in its way it is neutral, and I believe that if you meet it in your own neutral way, it will strangle you and it will tyrranise and it will consume you, so the fight is between the self and life, and as much as you feel that you are the underdog, when you fight, then you are in control. and when you are in control, you will not accept defeat, and love will guide you in this battle with the great life, and how could a single individual battle with life? I think the answer is, that he battles in the fight with his own life, although greater life overlooks, so then there is personal life and the greater life, and they are hungry for one another, they are alone, and they seek companionship, and neither of these versions of life can stand alone, how ever much they would like to live in a free way,

Caeser in Overalls

Caesar is in overalls, and he is a student, and is over aware of himself, and he embraces this place, and this place is the haunt of madmen, drinking the blood of the self, they wear the blinkers of delusion, and they, in drinking this personal blood, must find prey, and they focus on the stillness of a soul, apart from their understanding, away from compliance, and their eyes have become a place of unknowing, they no longer guide the self to the place of deliverance, they have departed the self, they have turned inward to a place that avoids the soul, truth, and fools can't see, and they walk on a lateral path, and they have nothing to say with the host of words that they have to say, their quest was for dominance and it has evaded them, it will not allow them, and they are lost within some kind of disappointment, expectation has defeated them, and it lingers, and then perhaps there is a look back to the beginning, that was in the past, when things were just about to begin.

First Born Son

Never knew that I could feel so weak, Always thought I was the quiet tough guy, but now I know that I am not, and now am always wondering where you are, and indeed, if there is some kind of life around you, sometimes, I feel that I should accompany you to where you are now, and I think back to you, and the early years of you, we were far from being the best of friends, and perhaps that was what made us so close, anyway, if you ever want to enter into me and speak to me, I will always be here for you, my first born son.

The Question

An apparently wise and eternal word is spoken, and it is listened to and embraced, and then there becomes the paradox, another version of a particular apparent truth, a thought must explode, knowing that it cannot stand alone, be definitive, be an ultimate answer, and then between the shallow and the deep, there is no difference, apart from a detail, that in the end is unable to justify itself, and what then, is belief based upon? Is it any more than an idea that has become lost in itself? Has deceived itself in its narrowness? And it is in the narrowness of insecure belief that a definite answer has to be found, for the ones of that nature, and the only real answer is the answer of love, with its pattern of forever changing, for its openness and diversity, for its being free to allow interpretation, for the questioning that it enters you with, looking for the answers in the changing of feeling, and every answer, is an answer, for every moment that has a question, and every question can look within itself and know that it needn't ask, it knows already, in its spirit and its soul, and in its love.

Writers of Truth

Writers of truth, how I love the feeling, as opposed to the writers who only write to write, feeling, overhead, determining, dreaming of glory, seeking to be accompanied by acceptance, as if acceptance is the thing that defines the worth, and the worth is expressed by beauty, it stands right there in front of you and it screams at you that your writing is 'out of love' and your money will not bring you art, and everything that you do is temporary, it will not succeed, it will not advance further than the present moment, and I think that there are degrees of success, if success is even a word, and pouring over me are your words, and your being inadequate, and I wonder how you feel when you are truly alone, without the comfort, of the comfort of the one you claim to love, and the one that you claimed to love, wasn't really someone that you could touch, you desired more, you were hungrier, and I wonder how that might feel

Old Eyes

Eyes, in memory, unremovable, fixed, like the star in 'Eileen Aroon' now buried in Bunclody, in County Wexford, and these eyes, still have something to say, and they remain, and they yet continue to pierce their way into my consciousness, yesterday and today align, separated only by refusal, by reluctance to let them have their way, and the picture must be allowed, must be granted its freedom to exist after its death, and those eyes, those eyes of death, question with their question, until they themselves choose to sleep, in a sleep that can never be death, that will return always, they seem to flit between a former death and a present life, they seem to know when to activate and when to retire, and I'm tempted to think that the truth is in the middle somewhere, in that mediocre place, that place that is halfway up the mountain, and those old eyes, spoke to me of love and its search, and then they turned away, to the place that they presently had been focussed upon, and I stood in a lonely place, where music was my master, lending itself to poetry, and I ended up looking at the wall, and at its corner, and the size of my world decreased, and I was assailed by anger, much as I tried to still it, in a time of emptiness.