Writing

TAKE NOTHING BUT THE PICTURES

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TAKE NOTHING BUT THE PICTURES
Our minds are all we have
They are all we have ever had
Be they good or bad
As my thoughts wander towards my life
I feel an energy deep inside
A life-force gathering momentum
Like an onrushing, incoming tide.
There’s a power that will not be denied
And a direction I feel I must go
And it doesn’t matter in the greater scheme of things
If the momentum is fast or slow
For no matter how small something may seem
To others it may be a huge overpowering dream
Whose connection is infinite.
Happiness cannot be taught
Nor love bought
So if you must go
Take nothing but the pictures in your mind
And leave nothing but your footprints behind

GOOD ADVICE

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WRITING, DRINKING, WANKING

You can either buy me a drink or fuck off
Were the first words Patrick Kavanagh said to me.
He was hunched over an empty glass in the corner of McDaids,
Gobbing and spitting into the embers of the open fire
I arrived here nearly thirty years ago,
Having spent two days traipsing the road from Monaghan,
But I wanted to be in Dublin, y’know?
Where I thought the real writers were.
Real writers me arse!
They spend all their time drinking and talking about writing
And none of it doing any
He nearly took my hand off grabbing the drink I had got him,
Writing should be like wanking –
Best done in the privacy of your own room

MORE THOUGHTS OF A STATIONARY WRITER

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OBSERVATIONS
Our lives are not our own
Our cards are marked from womb to tomb
Jealousy is the art of counting
Someone else’s blessings and not your own
You will never grow big by thinking small
The life you leave behind is no big deal at all
Be strong, be brave
But most of all don’t be a slave
To fashions, to politics, or whatever is the craze
Don’t run if you’re not able
And never expect happiness to come
With a glossy buy-me-now label.

WHAT IS?

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THE MEANING OF LIFE

At the forefront of knowledge
Is the edge of uncertainty
Where reality is really
Only a projection of information
At the rim of the universe.
There, black holes loiter with intent.
They seek to break the sacred laws of physics
Which, as everyone knows, state
That information cannot be destroyed.
This is the point of no return.
All the information that ever existed is here
And black holes are held at bay – for now
What is inside is not inside
And what is outside is not outside.
We are merely holographic projections
Rendered flesh at this event horizon.

Asimov, of course, knew this
Way back when computers
Were not ten-a-penny.
He knew the truth, or guessed
That the universe is one vast computer itself
And we are merely its slavish programmers.
Though not living out purposeless existences,
As some believe,
But proving that life does have some meaning:
We are the way for the universe to know itself

TIGER BAY

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TIGER BAY

How long have they sat there,
Unnoticed?
Granite haunches
Tensed in the sand
Brunting the snarling sea
Washed over again and again
Licking endless salt wounds away.

From these high cliffs I see them clearly
Wild creatures
Waiting patiently for prey
Yesterday it was desolate;
Now there are tigers in the bay

WIDE, WIDE WOMEN

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WIDE, WIDE WOMEN

What is it with young women with buggies?
Both seem to get wider with each passing day
And use the pavement as a playground
Where their feckless children can play
Skateboards, scooters and other diverse playthings
Are added to the cigarettes – usually Kings,
That hang permanently from pinkified faces,
Beneath this rainbow gathering of hairpieces
Adorning those many empty spaces.
The pavement, somehow, seems smaller these days.

CHASSEUR

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CHASSEUR

Chasseur
Skyshrine
Gold-plated muzzer
Briglith
Brigand
Mantle of Kronsek
Stingers
Draconic Recognition
Drakota slingers
Void-sheltered stud
Night so Tender
Darklight wood

SAN QUENTIN

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SAN QUENTIN

Johnny Cash wore black because it was raining
Not to protect him from getting wet
But to show solidarity with the elements
Which to his mind had darkened perceptibly
Since he had begun to sing
San Quentin, he roared
I hate every inch of your name
And the prison bars responded
Reverberating down the endless corridors of shame

INSPIRATION

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INSPIRATION

The midnight muse does not wait
For the lure of silver at someone’s gate
Nor the rattle of chains in rust-red splendour
As the moonlight beams on the night so tender.
The midnight muse has something strange to tell;
‘Silence is violence’
Say the damned in hell
To speak is to live not bound by chains
An ’empty silence’ is all that remains

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

OH, FOR THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES

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OH, FOR THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES

Falling in love with a poet
May be the closest you will come to living forever
Be the wild card in his pack
In a world where lonely queens never say never
Go live in the desert rather than a fancy hotel
Eat with rusty cutlery, drink cider instead of Muscatel
Visit no mans land, but once only
Then come back and you will never feel lonely
Remember that underground city that once glowed
Red in the dark
Go limber up in hilly Montmartre
Then go barefoot in Gaudi Park
Dance with demons and devils on some remote island
Then go toss some cabers in the godless Scottish Highlands
All this you must do, while your poet’s mouth opens and closes
As you dance along some cobbled street singing
Oh, for the days of wine and roses.