The Irish Flute

This Irish flute of solitude,
Has played me too long with it’s illusory jest;
And when I blow my heart out into it;
It’s timbre vacillates my timber breast

Atop this meadow hill I stand;
Hold the flute of solitude in my hand;
I’ll Pump my soul in the wooden pipe;
So that all may hear my loneliness’ gripe

No trite song shall I play today;
For the song must summon my lover of old;
To her I shall surrender my destiny;
For I am hers; to shape; to mould;

So I commence; thence; put all my compunction aside;
She’s calling me from Elysium and I must abide;
But guilty seas lie in between / and / I don’t think I can sail through;
I have no ship and I have no sail; the wind’s my enemy and I have no crew;

But I shall persist; command and insist
Her to spare me this pointless privation;
And to return from those frozen lands
And be the cause of my joy and elation;

And all the while, this wooden flute;
Rendering all the other voices mute,
Whispers gently to the gentler air,
"She's gone / she's gone; she's never coming back;
she's gone forever; despair; despair"



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Victory

Victory drips from this resolute soul
The sweet taste of it fills my mouth
It’s not as sweet as your kisses could have been
But then, it almost gets me there; It’s -
The only compromise I could ever make
Swapping you with this victory
That slowly drips from this resolute soul
Perhaps because of this leaky resolution
That challenges fate to try to tempt me,
And renders it’s every attempt futile,
I can not stop sucking this sweet taste of victory
That tastes almost as sweet as your kisses
Could have been
So, let it leak forever from this resolution
This leaky resolution
That I’ll never ever love any other girl.
Ever
And allow me the sweet taste of victory. Forever.


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Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Postcards from the third world

To all my brothers and all my sisters
And to all the immoral and corrupt ministers
To every stalker of a better luck
Who’s stuck in this orgy and doesn’t want to fuck
To all I send these postcards and prayers
May god give you food and DVD players

To the woman who ate rice from the gutters
To the unemployed scientist who quietly mutters
To all those born with a silver spoon
To every gangster and every goon
For all these people I ask from god
To teach them fishing and teach them fraud

To the new bride in the abortion clinic
To the girl in her womb - already a cynic
To the doctor who knows, had it been a boy
She wouldn’t have ever paid him to destroy
To all those stuck behind me in this traffic
I wish they had the eyes of national geographic

To all who see culture in this disorder
To our neighbor - seemingly blind to the border
To insincerity’s cadaver and to poverty’s vulture
And to all those who see disorder in this culture
For every beast and every man
I wish I could say there’s a better plan

To all the people in the second world and first
To all who don’t know how to spell worst
To every celebrity who comes so often
Gets pictures taken and adopts an orphan
To all you people I send love and care
And would never wish for you to be here


This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.