GOLD

THE HOODED MAN AT MY BED

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THE HOODED MAN AT MY BED
The hooded man at the foot of my bed
Speaks to me
Of all creation
Since the Big Bang
Being measured by the products of decay.
Insanity, chaos, corruption
Lies, rot, ruin
Sickness, dirt and rust
Shed cells, dead cells, atrophy
Sweat, ashes and dust
That at a subatomic level
Create new mass.
And this goes on infinitely.
He talks of forbidden fruit and original sin
Walking into the light
Into streets paved with gold
Of extraterrestrials, gurus, ghosts
Paradise
And mixing with heavenly hosts
Of hell and reincarnation
Being healed
Raised from the dead
Coming back as a lumberjack
A raven
Or a hunchback
Where will it all end?
I mean to ask my hooded friend
But suddenly he is nowhere to be seen.

read or buy my books @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

CITY OF GOLD

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CITY OF GOLD
I walk this city of twenty-six year olds
With their narrow suits and three-o-clock faces
Their heads full of twitter-speak
And their pockets full of aces.
Cast die to self and follow number seven;
If I say a prayer for redemption
Will I get a free bus ride to heaven?

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

NO THANKS

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NO THANKS

If I left you now, what would you miss?
Grumpy mornings, silent evenings
And taken-for-granted pause between the emptiness;
And hidden behind the tall tales, adultery;
Mental maybe, but real nevertheless

You dazed me in the park one Sunday’s summer afternoon.
Your smile was electric.
Later, you hid your patience well
When freedom was dragged from under my feet.
You ticked of the (waiting) time
And I repaid you with monologues of deceit

There are those more deserving of your kindness;
Less selfish, less angry,
And less possessed of my bloody-mindedness.
You bore your cross to the edge and beyond.
Always hauling me back to the fold.
Snatches of love were your only compensation,
Were I a better man I would cloak you in gold