INCANDESCENT

Strange flowers grow;
Cold blossoms in silent hours.
Lost among weeds;
I count these moments alone,
Waiting for the roses bloom.

Photo by M.D. Flynn

A Letter To My Editor

If you are reading this then I am already dead.
Wow...
Sorry dear Editor.
Smile,
As this is my face.
And there's more to dying than just being dead.
This is my other face...
See,
I like Boys on swings
Girls on skateboards
I like Babies in high chairs ...
Little kittens with balls of string
Water caught in spider webs
barefoot in a storm.
People with big hats ...
People with big eyebrows in big hats.
I like mistakes.
it's better living through chemistry
I like people who don't smile - ever !
And people who smile.
As for love,
I love my enemies ... I need them to watch me eat.
I love food.
And today dear Editor,
I brought some things for Cook to cook.
In some ways, I love everything.
It's less ... less of a thing then,
Like,
Less distinct, less particular.
I like the things that I like but I LOVE everything.
There's more choice in like ...
Cause,
Even the worst things have things to love in them.
I love things so much,
I feel like I can float away ...
I can't.
My Mom understands how to float everyday.
While I can only stand,
It's not the only thing.
As for things I hate...
I hate shoes.
People who change their voices when they say something important.
I hate my nose,
I hate museums,
I hate war ...
Swimming costumes that cling.
I hate dripping taps ...
But I also sort of love dripping taps.
I hate invitations.
I hate radiators.
I hate this.
Wow.
Sorry dear Editor.
If you are reading this then I am already dead.

        In The Dust Of Spyders

I die to sleep and dream awake.
Begins the sight to ought I see.
Grows blue the waters of the lake.
I die to sleep and dream awake.
Come friend, to where the spyders shake,
And green the salt down in the sea.
We'll die to sleep and dream awake.
Giving us sight to ought we see.

THE  MARKET  STREET  EL

after the gates have closed
the dogs run free
among the headstones
as I pass
waiting for a train

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

burnt orange black line
hard tested steel
hammer forged
for a world of hammers
open your doors

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

dented
cold people of faith
each to own
sit and stare
so as not to be seen
you do not want to die
alone

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

new blind old
classic arch
Reflect in glass

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

oil in the machine
gleam
past neon bars
arrive
past empty windows
vacant walls
running over the streets
in high steam

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

trains come
to pass us by
Smaller
Shiny Things
bend without edge
our strength is love

samba, sugarloaf, jungle, piranha

                                                                 Glasgow                                Photo by M.D. Flynn





                                                            Scotland            Photo by M.D. Flynn

Oh Oisin*

Oisin, see me in this ruin.
All awe has gone with yesterday.
Now there is nothing left within.
Blood once thought fast is here worn thin,
Where skies are not cloudy all day.
Oisin, see me in this ruin.
Blank I stare upon what has been.
A life unwinds to go astray.
Now there is nothing left within.
I look upon this wage of sin,
Amazed at my naivete.
Oisin, see me in this ruin.
Faint is the shine of hollow skin.
As bright spark failing fades to gray,
Now there is nothing left within.
Gone is my awe, gone too the grin.
The tie that bound has come away.
Oisin, see me in this ruin.
Now there is nothing left within.

*Oisin ( Old Irish, pronounced , “ush, een”,
and translates as
“Little Fawn / Great Poet” )


Glasgow            Photo by M.D. Flynn