Aeflainna

I blame the music I listened to. It encouraged me to dream and learn to be my true self, and that’s what led to me running away from home. It was only a few months ago, but I feel like I’m a hundred years old now. For almost a month after I arrived in London I faded into the ranks of the homeless – but I was lucky, because it was summer and the nights weren’t so bitter. If anything it was romantic and wild, as I slept under bridges listening to the gentle progress of the Thames and spent my days wandering around the city. Soho became my friend, Hyde Park was my successful big brother back home who always did things better

Intent is pure. Oil on canvas, words on page, imagery on image, All one and the same under the blanket Of an overarching sky Omitted out of reach. We paint in new ways Using the oldest tools we own. Yet they own us, shaping Thought, matter, substance, feeling, And the human condition. A single composition transmuted Into composed poetics. Four verses for four aspects: Building description, idealism, bathetic reality and (of?) the Self. Thoughts expressed in the dying of the light With only the mind for illumination. Belfast and Delft blur Like childhood dwellings Simultaneously of and on the past The coal glittering, light

Dreams drown in the Thames. Disillusionment drifts, Like dust, gathering on Tower Bridge. The tube rattles with empty echoes. Memories blur, A fixed fluidity meandering its wicked way through my mind. You. Beautiful, symbolic you. One thing, I can never say. One thing, I will always say: You're never boring.

It was the best of times; it was the very best of times. A shadow was quivering down the hallway, booted feet padding beneath the high vaulted arches that formed the ceiling. The footsteps were barely audible as they wound their way between the deep hollowed shadows gouged out into the walls. The stone, worn smooth by centuries of soft creeping footfalls and yelping, thundering thuds of book-heavy bags, yielded neutrally to the caress of the boots, a passive spectator witnessing but not judging the events before it. Even in response, stone is cold and impartial. “Who’s there?” a strong masculine voice reverberated. The boots

You were never my other half: I wouldn't want you otherwise; One half of me is too much to cope with already. I survive alone, but not lonely. I can eat, sleep, breathe with you gone, As I could when you were here. You're not my better half. There was nothing superior in you. We were equals. "Exactly the same, only complete opposites" We were complete when we were seperated. We are now. I remember your silly hair, your big masculine hands. I hear your mannerisms slip through my lips, Like you slipped through my cynical defenses, Simple - daft? Tender, honest. Your words made me laugh. Now the memories make me smile through no

Is self-reflection a sort of vanity, or a sort of self-loathing? Scrutinisation of oneself suggests an inherent sense of preoccupation with the individual over others. No man is an island; but, when all is said and Donne, I am not a man. So am I left, now cold and bereft, of a gentle human touch? Perhaps I'm fraught, by a cold sense of ought, or do I just think too much? A realisation of the self leads to an appreciation of others. It restricts no more than the binds of true friendship. Failure is more important than success because without it, success would become meaningless and devalued. Maybe that is why I read existentialism, and dr

Raging fire Raise me higher Don't let my inner flame expire; Help me to create - to perspire In entirely soulful darkness - Inspire Me! I'll sell my soul, If You're the buyer. So hear me! With every dire Verse impale upon the spire Each and every silk-tongued liar Lest I descend, and join the mire Of unexpressed and failed desire.

So tell me: What is marriage but legal prostitution? Just ordained and permitted by social institution. Women needed money, and therefore Exchanged it for intercourse. Essentially a whore With a ring on her finger was termed a ‘wife’ Welcoming the Mary dichotomy tyrannised life. Either virgin or mother: that is the price Women pay to escape judgement and “vice” With no regard to their own happiness Isn’t the transaction the same? I profess That I chastise gold diggers, yet answer me this: Does society give any choice but this When women are taught from an early age To be happy to sit in their homely cag