At midnight near the wall

I'm listening to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gY3VrpyZnhs

and thinking about a damp, misted night in Sligo over 20 years ago, walking back to my rented room with Kieran, too young by a rounding error, by the tiniest margin of appropriate.
We stop on a bridge - to kiss, to relent, above the rush of the dark river. We condense, wipe the drops from our eyes.

My cynical Valentine

The whole lurid, rose-tinted cellophane day grates on me; every last pink-lace inch makes me itch.

The ostentatious parade of those in love carrying banners of flowers, chocolates and distressingly sexualized teddy bears; the pasted-smile lament of those alone, who seethe inside, or violently retaliate in fits of self-righteous bitterness.
Over it all lies a (however frilled) patina of guilt, disappointment and amends: that we do not love, that we are not loved, we do not love right enough, or that we are too loved, on this one, particular card-infested day.

This is not meant to disparage those who enjoy the day on its merits (Flowers! Candy! Chocolates! Dinner! Sexy time!) - by all means love, and be loved, and find love.

But do so every day.

In progress

By day's end I'm foxed and bent.
Dismount from the bland dais,
shut down market stall, the four-corners
where I spend the dimes of smiles.

Close me up, fold my shades
feed me silent selfishness
until the caw of 6am
when I must do it all, again.

The Insomnabulator

Left sleep on the 3:12, window seat,
cheek against the square, cold frame.
Murmuring riders - the too hot, the too cold
the knitters, the readers,
the lonely lustful prayers
unwound from dreams;
The one who strikes the door with his fist
and begs to be turned back.
Some press the pinhole light above
stare straight ahead, lint and stains
counted, recounted.
There are pacers in the aisle, stumbling
into anxious talkers, and the late-night foragers
faces refrigerator-white.
We rumble and shudder forward,
and the morning revolves
into our varied, intrepid journeys.

The rare remembered dream

Half-submerged steel city in the shadow of a broken bridge, its clockwork parts askew.
I am leading an expedition through rusty water that stains our shins and ankles. Reaching the entrance, we crawl, foot-to-head, through the sandbagged tunnels.
If you want light you must touch the walls just so.
We come out into a maze of thin streets, rimed with old graffiti. No sky. Just ceiling A barefoot figure turns a corner, then darts into a hidden door.
"You never knew people lived here, did you?"

Wake.

commute

 I smell the remaining perfume in the crook of my arm as I fight with the errant blinkers and the roaming Corolla in front of me; double-take at strip mall signs, brush ash from my business casual.

Another night

A pour instead of a saucepan and a stove.
A heart to heart between you and you; and
in the morning you culpably measure
the bottle's level. And swear.