My heart is on fire
I can feel the cold veins tighten
The air is thin
But there is an escape
To sleep and awaken
Without the dread of going on
Among drunken friends
With a pink night sky
The promise of tomorrow
A journey beyond the black azur
The warm taste of lips
The tight embrace
Now and then
I live here for a fresh grasp of before
Innocent wanderings
Truth or a life of lies
Blue eyes
Sparkle for one glimpse
Of a time
When love triumphed
Take my hand and lead
The way
Oh touch of silver
And tears of gold
A bronze statue
Stands in the way of the cross
An image carved in flesh
That can never disappear
Breasts and blood
Polished fragments
Kept locked away
And no-one knew the treaures I held
Under this oak tree
On a road to heaven
Will anybody arrive
To tease the truth out of me
I swam in fields of stone
And waded through valleys
thick with broken dreams
And you whispered, I am here for you
Forever the echo of despair
The wind is cold
The rain beats my face
Everyone has Lazarus in them
If, for one crystal moment
You understood the beauty of it all
And took a chance
To be free
It is better to be alone
And sad like the pauper with a crooked smile
Who laughs like a dog
When his bowl is empty
Tomorrow offers another chance
To reign in this world of empty gestures
And futile talk
Of babble and froth
Trust in your talents
They are more fruitful than the stars
Take a handful of wisdom
And let the earth eat it up
Savour your last breath
among your friends
Who never knew you, and
Wanted to set you free
Eat cake, poor man
Dream you were never alive
Smoke black thoughts
And overthrow the Gods
My heart is on fire
It needs poison to hear sung
The tune of the wilderness
Come Wrap me in joy
Demo 02.09.2007
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Monday, 27 August 2007
Century
The magnet of centuries
Drags the ice of my heart
To a place of black shadows
Where the forgotten world is
Alive like the wise laugh of a child
I can see blue eyes hidden
Behind masks of Gods
Trampled on the oceans of desire
Their greatness like a wisp of floss
Pink and melt in the mouth
Your flesh, crawling like clouds
Over the deep sway of heaven
Dark, smooth as a crystal bark
Unmoved, a heart like a wasp
Yellow, black and silver in a blink
My eyes move inside me as thick
As treacle and your breath as stale
As the priest who moves without walking
Inside the deep cave where thunder
Echoes like the shore
When all is gone, gone forever
Velvet stain on blue as the
Immense sky goes to sleep
Try as I might, I cannot
Forgive or forget a whisper
Or a dream or a slight of hand
Nothing is like
All God sent us
To sleep
One eye forever open
In case the heart stops
And you leave
Leave me alone and I dine
On scraps of crumpled memory
Can a child breathe and smile
Without the gold of the stars
Without the air of the universe
Without knowing who made him
The oracle?
The dew on the shadowed grass
The apple tree, the air windless
The sky grey with purple song
Trapped here and a black hole
Gaping in the universe
Ah, the last exhale of life
As you look into my sharp eyes
And see the truth, sugar seer
What I never told you
And all I longed to say
And the children never knew
Of their dad, the man who
Gave them life
Hold my dead hand and raise
It to your salty rivers
Where bitter memory refreshes
The pool of life
In the shadows sits an old man
As lonely as a forgotten task
He closes his eyes - and dreams
of a past when raw boundless joy
made him as free as the unseen wind
The chimes set him loose
And he walked and grew tired
The ache - black like thread
Weak as a snob's glance
Fleeting as a sigh without a heart
I forget this world with all my might
And fall fast as a stone
To the time when existence
Was purer than belief
And I exist for a second
In a world that lasts forever
The shadow in the field
The teardrop on the leaf
Among millions
Breathe one last time so
I may smell you next to me
In my soul
Tangerine like the fire on the hill
And the centuries roll into one.
Damien Lane 25.8.2007
Drags the ice of my heart
To a place of black shadows
Where the forgotten world is
Alive like the wise laugh of a child
I can see blue eyes hidden
Behind masks of Gods
Trampled on the oceans of desire
Their greatness like a wisp of floss
Pink and melt in the mouth
Your flesh, crawling like clouds
Over the deep sway of heaven
Dark, smooth as a crystal bark
Unmoved, a heart like a wasp
Yellow, black and silver in a blink
My eyes move inside me as thick
As treacle and your breath as stale
As the priest who moves without walking
Inside the deep cave where thunder
Echoes like the shore
When all is gone, gone forever
Velvet stain on blue as the
Immense sky goes to sleep
Try as I might, I cannot
Forgive or forget a whisper
Or a dream or a slight of hand
Nothing is like
All God sent us
To sleep
One eye forever open
In case the heart stops
And you leave
Leave me alone and I dine
On scraps of crumpled memory
Can a child breathe and smile
Without the gold of the stars
Without the air of the universe
Without knowing who made him
The oracle?
The dew on the shadowed grass
The apple tree, the air windless
The sky grey with purple song
Trapped here and a black hole
Gaping in the universe
Ah, the last exhale of life
As you look into my sharp eyes
And see the truth, sugar seer
What I never told you
And all I longed to say
And the children never knew
Of their dad, the man who
Gave them life
Hold my dead hand and raise
It to your salty rivers
Where bitter memory refreshes
The pool of life
In the shadows sits an old man
As lonely as a forgotten task
He closes his eyes - and dreams
of a past when raw boundless joy
made him as free as the unseen wind
The chimes set him loose
And he walked and grew tired
The ache - black like thread
Weak as a snob's glance
Fleeting as a sigh without a heart
I forget this world with all my might
And fall fast as a stone
To the time when existence
Was purer than belief
And I exist for a second
In a world that lasts forever
The shadow in the field
The teardrop on the leaf
Among millions
Breathe one last time so
I may smell you next to me
In my soul
Tangerine like the fire on the hill
And the centuries roll into one.
Damien Lane 25.8.2007
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
Pit of despair
A project for life...
In search of the truth of it all...
A way to wade through the mud which comes up past my waist..
The swamp is all around. The inhabitants of the swamp make soaring to the heavens impossible. They drag you down to their level.
Ignorance abounds. The world is smaller than the eye of a needle.
Where is the desire to escape the chains of bondage?
Where is the urge to wrestle freedom from the jaws of those who hold power?
Where is the beauty that makes man the champion of the truth of the world?
Where is the questioning, the insight, the quiet calm of reflection?
In travel, yes. In breaking the bonds of routine, yes. In making love, yes. In writing, sometimes. In sleep, yes. In death, perhaps. I remain to be convinced.
To be free is not to escape oneself. To be truly free is when one is emersed in oneself.
I smile and embrace the world when the secrets that make me tick remain unknown to anyone else.
I long to walk out the door of this office - where I am chained to a desk to make money - and leave on a boat and sail to Europe and become anonymous again.
Not forgotten.
I would journey on the trains that I love to the romantic destinations of the ancient continent. The places that made the old world that I love so great.
Places like Posen, Sarajevo, Danzig, Odessa and Brabant.
And if by good grace I was afforded the privilege of never having to talk to or acknowledge a swamp-dwelling imbecile again, my soul would soar as high as the heavens.
And I would be free. Anonymous and free.
This shall be my project. To discover what has made me who I am.
In search of the truth of it all...
A way to wade through the mud which comes up past my waist..
The swamp is all around. The inhabitants of the swamp make soaring to the heavens impossible. They drag you down to their level.
Ignorance abounds. The world is smaller than the eye of a needle.
Where is the desire to escape the chains of bondage?
Where is the urge to wrestle freedom from the jaws of those who hold power?
Where is the beauty that makes man the champion of the truth of the world?
Where is the questioning, the insight, the quiet calm of reflection?
In travel, yes. In breaking the bonds of routine, yes. In making love, yes. In writing, sometimes. In sleep, yes. In death, perhaps. I remain to be convinced.
To be free is not to escape oneself. To be truly free is when one is emersed in oneself.
I smile and embrace the world when the secrets that make me tick remain unknown to anyone else.
I long to walk out the door of this office - where I am chained to a desk to make money - and leave on a boat and sail to Europe and become anonymous again.
Not forgotten.
I would journey on the trains that I love to the romantic destinations of the ancient continent. The places that made the old world that I love so great.
Places like Posen, Sarajevo, Danzig, Odessa and Brabant.
And if by good grace I was afforded the privilege of never having to talk to or acknowledge a swamp-dwelling imbecile again, my soul would soar as high as the heavens.
And I would be free. Anonymous and free.
This shall be my project. To discover what has made me who I am.
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
A murder mystery
Today it rains...great spits from the heavens. But the people plod on through the puddles and the splashes. Life goes on. The routine of existence. Sartre was right. The enemy to true freedom is being a slave to others. The weight of living and expectation drag us down. Hands up those who doesn't see joy any more, only sorrow and suffering.
Dublin is the greyest city in the world even in the blue shimmer of summer.
An apt backdrop for crime reporting - my raison d'etre.
Today, I am in a glum district court where a broken man, who once had it all, is charged with the murder of his wife. She was strangled with the flex of a hoover on Fenruary 28, 2006.
A moment of madness on his birthday. He took life away - a fit of rage.
And now he must pay the penalty. He pleads not guilty. He chews gum. He wears sandals. He slouches and yawns.
The murdered woman's six sisters sit a few yards away from him. They sob quietly to themselves. The proceedings only last 60 seconds. This is not real life. I feel utterly removed sitting in that dark court room. I am here to do a job - recording what is said for the lurid consumption of the sots who read tabloids.
I feel dead inside. I can barely raise my head and cross my legs without feeling nauseous.
Fellow reporters joke and smile before the Judge arrives. Cops with moustaches and careers mapped out look satisfied. They've got their man. Young attractive female barristers try to look businesslike. They are fooling only themselves.
I leave the court numb to what has transpired inside. I travel back to the office alone. A memory of childhood comes to mind. I miss that time. 1978. I smile for the first time today.
Now I sit in the newspaper's offices writing this blog having penned my court report. It will be read tomorrow by 500,000 people, or so my bosses boast.
I feel nothing for those who rely on the misery of others to add meaning to their lives.
Yours Truly,
The Black Dwarf
May 30, 2007
Dublin is the greyest city in the world even in the blue shimmer of summer.
An apt backdrop for crime reporting - my raison d'etre.
Today, I am in a glum district court where a broken man, who once had it all, is charged with the murder of his wife. She was strangled with the flex of a hoover on Fenruary 28, 2006.
A moment of madness on his birthday. He took life away - a fit of rage.
And now he must pay the penalty. He pleads not guilty. He chews gum. He wears sandals. He slouches and yawns.
The murdered woman's six sisters sit a few yards away from him. They sob quietly to themselves. The proceedings only last 60 seconds. This is not real life. I feel utterly removed sitting in that dark court room. I am here to do a job - recording what is said for the lurid consumption of the sots who read tabloids.
I feel dead inside. I can barely raise my head and cross my legs without feeling nauseous.
Fellow reporters joke and smile before the Judge arrives. Cops with moustaches and careers mapped out look satisfied. They've got their man. Young attractive female barristers try to look businesslike. They are fooling only themselves.
I leave the court numb to what has transpired inside. I travel back to the office alone. A memory of childhood comes to mind. I miss that time. 1978. I smile for the first time today.
Now I sit in the newspaper's offices writing this blog having penned my court report. It will be read tomorrow by 500,000 people, or so my bosses boast.
I feel nothing for those who rely on the misery of others to add meaning to their lives.
Yours Truly,
The Black Dwarf
May 30, 2007
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
Bertie - the master of deception
Doesn't it stink to high heaven that the Mahon Tribunal's investigation into Bertie Ahern's web-like finances was postponed for the duration of the General Election campaign so as not to "interfere" with the democratic process.
Because there was no public dissection of the cash donations Bertie received while Minister for Finance in the 1990s, the people were HOODWINKED into voting the master of deception back in for another five years.
It's all coming out in the wash now at Dublin Castle as the Tribunal details Ahern's murky financial arrangements.
£116,000 pounds in two years to a man who had NO bank account. Strange indeed?
But the startling revelations being heard at Mahon have come three weeks too late.
If the people knew BEFORE Thursday 24th May what they know now about Ahern, it is unlikely, to say the least, that he would have been re-elected.
Ahern's deceptions have now been laid bare. But Bertie doesn't care. And, astonishingly the vast majority of Irish people don't care.
Wake up you fools. Bertie's made a mockery of us all. He lied about the money he got. He cried on national TV to solicit sympathy. He even attacked the media for telling the truth.
And you bought it all.
Ah, poor Bertie, the man of the people, you collectively said. Poor, down-on-his heel Bertie. Sure he couldn't be on the take. Isn't he just like me - a mere mortal struggling to pay the mortgatge, who likes a pint and can't string a sentence together without getting in a muddle.
Hasn't he done the country proud.
He made you richer in pocket and that's all you care about.
Your message to the world when you voted Fianna Fail was: To hell with other people. I've got my SUV, my big house, my nice clean clothes and my few pints on a Friday night. To hell with other people.
Who cares about appalling public services, or a health service that puts old people on trolleys and plastic chairs for 40 hours. Couldn't care less, me. I've got my money, I'm having my fun. That's all that matters.
Who cares that I'm spending three hours a day sitting in traffic to get to work. Aren't I in a nice new 07 D?
Who cares that 20 per cent of Irish children live in constant poverty. I can eat in a fancy restaurant when I like.
In fact, I enjoy living up to my eyes in debt. I revel in not knowing any of my neighbours. I thoroughly enjoy paying through the nose to live day to day.
I don't mind that I never see my kids because both me and the wife have to work all the hours god sends just to pay the Building Society the 2,000 a month mortgage.
What do I care.
Bertie never done nothing to me.
So what if he's corrupt. So what if Fianna Fail are in the back pockets of the builders and the multinationals.
I don't care. All I care about is what's in MY pocket.
Sure, I'm corrupt to the core. So why wouldn't I vote for a corrupt party to lead the next government.
On May 24 we elected a blind man to show us the way. The next five years will be the toughest in our recent history and we chose the wrong man to lead us.
This will become apparent in the months ahead when the money in your pocket begins to dry up; when your jobs start to go east to China; when houses and cars start to be repossessed; when construction projects are abandoned because costs are too high to continue.
Youy only have yourselves to blame. You voted with your pockets, not with your hearts.
There are 78 people, led by one man, who are laughing at you all today.
Yours Truly,
The Black Dwarf
29 May, 2007
Because there was no public dissection of the cash donations Bertie received while Minister for Finance in the 1990s, the people were HOODWINKED into voting the master of deception back in for another five years.
It's all coming out in the wash now at Dublin Castle as the Tribunal details Ahern's murky financial arrangements.
£116,000 pounds in two years to a man who had NO bank account. Strange indeed?
But the startling revelations being heard at Mahon have come three weeks too late.
If the people knew BEFORE Thursday 24th May what they know now about Ahern, it is unlikely, to say the least, that he would have been re-elected.
Ahern's deceptions have now been laid bare. But Bertie doesn't care. And, astonishingly the vast majority of Irish people don't care.
Wake up you fools. Bertie's made a mockery of us all. He lied about the money he got. He cried on national TV to solicit sympathy. He even attacked the media for telling the truth.
And you bought it all.
Ah, poor Bertie, the man of the people, you collectively said. Poor, down-on-his heel Bertie. Sure he couldn't be on the take. Isn't he just like me - a mere mortal struggling to pay the mortgatge, who likes a pint and can't string a sentence together without getting in a muddle.
Hasn't he done the country proud.
He made you richer in pocket and that's all you care about.
Your message to the world when you voted Fianna Fail was: To hell with other people. I've got my SUV, my big house, my nice clean clothes and my few pints on a Friday night. To hell with other people.
Who cares about appalling public services, or a health service that puts old people on trolleys and plastic chairs for 40 hours. Couldn't care less, me. I've got my money, I'm having my fun. That's all that matters.
Who cares that I'm spending three hours a day sitting in traffic to get to work. Aren't I in a nice new 07 D?
Who cares that 20 per cent of Irish children live in constant poverty. I can eat in a fancy restaurant when I like.
In fact, I enjoy living up to my eyes in debt. I revel in not knowing any of my neighbours. I thoroughly enjoy paying through the nose to live day to day.
I don't mind that I never see my kids because both me and the wife have to work all the hours god sends just to pay the Building Society the 2,000 a month mortgage.
What do I care.
Bertie never done nothing to me.
So what if he's corrupt. So what if Fianna Fail are in the back pockets of the builders and the multinationals.
I don't care. All I care about is what's in MY pocket.
Sure, I'm corrupt to the core. So why wouldn't I vote for a corrupt party to lead the next government.
On May 24 we elected a blind man to show us the way. The next five years will be the toughest in our recent history and we chose the wrong man to lead us.
This will become apparent in the months ahead when the money in your pocket begins to dry up; when your jobs start to go east to China; when houses and cars start to be repossessed; when construction projects are abandoned because costs are too high to continue.
Youy only have yourselves to blame. You voted with your pockets, not with your hearts.
There are 78 people, led by one man, who are laughing at you all today.
Yours Truly,
The Black Dwarf
29 May, 2007
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