Circles (Time is Alive)

All in the circle. Airport tears. Long finger, never-neverland love. The figures and the faces of the Kaleidescope gaze back in turn. The moon looks. The street is alive with Jazz. Music is yet to find a voice. Other places are entering minds as other places are exiting them. Life is silent, it has come to a stop. It looks within at itself and then runs away frightened and increases movement. There's a fight going on in an inner city street. The pubs are ablaze with emptiness and horse-racing. People are in cars and buses and taxis going places while other people are home and going nowhere but home. That's where the questioning begins. Its a lot to call yourself at home. How long can it last? Circles everythere, nobody sees them, but they are there alright. Ther's a charity collector looking for change and she has no need for money. She is on stage and away from home, thinking in public for once. Its summertime and life is hot and the skies sometimes cry. There is a little more freedom in the air. There is less explaining to do. It is a shared thing. I'm stuck inside of the daytime thinking about love, and what there is to find there. Today life is neon somehow, and expressive. It sings as it doesn't speak. There's a circle going on. Time is alive. its a shared experience, open to interpretation, but its just circles, circles, circles.

The Colours of My Day

The look, the clothes, the walk. Creating one strength, a new creation in one who was created. It was on Moore Street, though there had been travelling involved. They should have built a theatre there all of those years ago when Dublin was the capital of Europe in this way. But that was long before the journey, from the east I think, that was the direction left, departed. And the traveller must have felt quite unique in this other place, a star of a show in meagre surroundings. Money was the motive of course, the reason why. I've tried to imagine that place, but I can't even seem to be able to pronounce its name. There was a visitor here, I could see the homelessness in their scare. I said 'hi' in welcome, but no-one was there. I opened the door as a friend, with a smile and a wink, I got the faintest smile back, and a city in the east came alive for a while, early in my day. I'd been shopping for some food and going nowhere and lonely grafitti told me to 'sympathise, there's separation here, you have to realise.' And blues played in an evening where I used to live before, I mainly just listened though I can't say that it spoke to me and I'm not sure if I even interpreted it as music, and I wondered about connecting the east and the blues, and the guy in the hat with my girl, I just slipped through the curtain when the scene was played out and walked into my mind again and changed the colour of my day.

A Light for the Candle

Passion doesn't tell right from wrong. It lives in the moment. Its soul is fire and the fire has no mind. Underlying dream tells its truth in the welcome slumber. Awareness is suggested. It stands in the shadows of heat. A doorbell stranger with eyes in your eyes threatens to disturb your concealment. The noise of the street is begining to be heard. A child awakes to the suckling mother. There is war in the world and madness is on the stage, and they are dancing in the aisles. Definition is unsure, understanding is impossible. Confusion screams at the overwhelmed. What once was love has become a fleeting glance, eliciting words that should not have been said, and kisses that shouldn't have been kissed. Truth has been eclipsed in the crazy nighttime, and the day has come to hide. The day where once we cared and were loving. There is not an understanding silence, but a refusal to answer. There is nowhere to run, and passion grows red when seen in the mirror, and asks for forgiveness and offers to help. The fire turns to the summer and the summer speaks to the heart from the heart of love. Somewhere there is a warm embrace and a kiss that should be kissed and the words of feelings are tacitly accepted by a grateful stranger. The world has become undead. This world is full of strangers, its the point where music brings a light to the candle.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

Hunger of the Eyes

Its easier to look into the soul of an attractive woman, or try to, or pretend to. What are you doing when you gaze into the eyes of someone? What are you hoping to find? What is it possible to find there? Perhaps we get closest to those who are closest to us. Perhaps they are easier to discover. So there can be a forever stranger, someone you can't find an understanding of. You can romance their mystery, yet mystery is insincere and untruthful. But mystery is a magnet, is a lure, when it holds no answers, just possibilities. Unless of course a mystery is unravelled right before your eyes.

The Raven and The Dove

Funny how it bites when you aren't really looking nor paying much attention. The power invades you, and you don't want to even stop to wonder why, you just are, and just you are in that moment, with .............?

Dark Truth

Its a simple game but a game with many versions, like the thought behind the answer to the question, like the quality of silence in Cistercians, and the ring of life has truly no diversion. Is there sun behind the whore in the darkness??

One Saturday in June When I Had Taken a Rest from Living

There are too many people and they intermingle just a little bit too much. And then there are relational difficulties. Its a a great big roundabout where people hop on and off all the time. Perhaps everyone screws evrybody else one way or another.

Warm Summer Rain

Loving someone , you step outside of yourself, losing yourself in the midst of a picture you can recognise without seeing. Haunted by the moon and the demon pulls you open to a torture of the soul. SoI played my guitar and I sang songs to Venus and the songs were made of clay, when I had thought them living. I knew that I was a fool to be so foolish, and I ran away into another corner, finished the drink and threw the glass away, and she stood there crying in the wild jukebox evening and the day grew dark, and she consoled me with her care, and then there was fire, and the fire was a mountain, and as it tried to break its way into magic, the shepherd came with the memory of the ring, and she aligned herself with the feelings of the shepherd and she erased me. I walked into the deserted day, when it was indifferent and unknowing and it walked to the side of the world we had been in, and I picked up a candle in the flickering daylight and I was cornered by the years and they forced me to recognise them and know they were speeding and I smiled in my soul without tomorrow, and the moment grasped me and stopped me and I was passive, but recognised the moment without ever having seen it, and I was thankful of time anthe clock was silent and the day stood still but I was getting older and I saw the past, and the past ignored me and all I had left was a dream that I could not remember and I closed my eyes to mystery and blew the candle out and walked into the warm rain of the summer

Raining on the Day

Its hard to understand the day when it is raining.

Spirit of Light

Spirit of Light: The dam bursts into the open arms of the waiting nighttime, where the cold is dark and forbidding. Her name is like the wind and the cover of the sky, and she is in motlion. her eyes suggest a tranquil sound and I meet them in a storm of passion and I feel suspicious as I look upon my feelings. Somewhere someone is making love tonight and all that I can think about is consideration. its a subliminal world whre the conversation isn't really conversation, where fantasy is more fantastic and truth is imposssibkle to feel. And the daytime is like a magnet for the barren darkness, a present future where change is not for sale. The passive time of the present moment must be blown up into tommorrow when and where all at once a spirit of light will reveal.