Please take your items and your change

A roar - stampede,
Fleeing, fleeting final thought:
The first Strokes’ record; a mecca for the undevout,
Adrenaline supersedes everything,
Everything is so real

What was that I said?

Mind is the Vicegrip in my grandfather’s shed,
Body is a ‘92 Fiesta; Ford, red, worn to its extent,
Ground is a tightrope in Lidl, sway to the AC breeze,
Please take your items and your change

Prostrate, eyes closed,
To the Mater? I don’t know,
The rusted shears - baba has no more wool,
A switch, slowly pressed, two weeks total darkness,
What’s next?

What was that I said?

Mind is the Vicegrip in my grandfather’s shed,
Body is a ‘92 Fiesta; Ford, red, worn to its extent,
Ground is a tightrope in Lidl, sway to the AC breeze,
Please take your items and your change

The warmest, the bluest, four-letter-est kept me buoyant,
The warmest, the bluest, four-letter-est keeps me buoyant

Vicegrip

I am Dresden, rebuilt on cardboard
Exhalation; I find it so hard
The soot and the snow,
Like Dalmatians you always/never dreamed of having
They fill my lungs now, they fill my lungs now
-
And I found comfort in the warm tap (sans, avec)
As mid-December comes fever and distance (sans, avec)
And to Florence we marched, from Eastern Spain
The war, it grew, too much to take
And I yielded coldly, I yielded coldly
-
And I came back home to no heroes' welcome (sans, avec)
Often alone with your ghost in my bedroom (sans, avec)
Only PTSD for company, but where to begin
When all my metaphors run thin
What do I do now? What do I do now?
-
Once alive in the eyes of a lover,
Won't survive in the eyes of another

Dresden

One day it's going to stop
What does it mean to you?
is it a place in time or something yet to prove?

These days I'm at a loss for what I'm supposed to do
In the context of a song, comes the residue

And I'm so glad I've finally found somewhere
Cause all I've known is disrepair
So glad I've found a place to reside 
In a chorus of lies that sounds like:

When I'm weak I never think of it
When I'm weak I never think of you at all

Be patient love is what you told me
Not to ruminate on ticking clocks or black dogs in pursuit
So I just clean forgot that I was dying till the 16th morning broke
Revealing all I knew

And I'm so glad I've finally found somewhere
Cause all I've known is disrepair
So glad I've found a place to reside 
In a chorus of lies that sounds like:

When I'm weak I never think of it
When I'm weak I never think of you at all

When I'm Weak

Mary sits downstairs, hearing the news, oh she feels scared.
Heart of gold she wears, knowing just how much she cares about that girl.
-
Coco walks downstairs, deep in thought, sighs in despair.
'Poor Mary', she declares, wondering how and when she'll get home to Argentina.
-
'Life is to be lived', Coco says.
Mary shakes her head - 'You should steer clear of Dublin',
but Coco's reassurances fall on deaf ears when she hears:
-
'Stay home, Coco. Take off your coat
And come indoors. Come indoors.
Please don't, Coco. You know I'm old
Come indoors. Come indoors.'
-
'Well I've got good news; my flight's tomorrow afternoon.
Yet, I don't know what I'll do without you, Mary, you have been so good to me.'
-
'I'm so glad to hear', Mary's voice conceals a tear. This solitary nadir. Inhalation clears her knotted throat as she says:
-
'Don't go, Coco. Take off your coat
And come indoors. Come indoors.
You know, Coco, I love you like one of my own.'
-
'When you don't expect anything, life comes into view, shaping how you choose the world and I love you, Mary, but it's time to go home.
To go home.
To go home.
To go home.'

A Joy Unexpected

Mr. Mistook kindness for weakness;
always a prophet on the weekends,
ten deep, though his pockets haven't deepened.
A week's hard graft worth of profits have depleted.

And so the prophecy's completed -
daily, weekly, monthly, yearly.
Pining for a hairline that's receded,
Dax and Brylcreem missed so dearly.

Always with his bio at the ready,
down the local every single ear's burnt hearing how he got trials for Celtic,
he got trials for Chelsea 
and flew to the moon with Kubrick, JFK and Elvis Presley.

Such expertise on the finishing place of nice guys. 
Well if you're first, I'll blow up the starting blocks and rise
to another race cause I'm Usain, you're just fat guy.
Fuck your thoughts, you cretin. Keep them in your tiny fucking mind.

'I could've played county.
I could've played full back.'

CFO of the good aul days;
a modern-day Caesar on his two-wheeler,
doing wheelies in his chariot with Brutus and Cassius,
usurped in his throne by the ever-setting sun.

Nostalgia.
While all of us are in the clutches of the thumbs-up-dopamine-inner-scream muffled by the black screen.
He's so tired of trying and always being fed to the Mayans, fuck, I mean lions.
And so it's clear this metaphor has run it's course I've gotta Columbo one more thing onto this here discourse.

There's nothing wrong with Clark Kent, Ringo Starr, Peter Parker, Garfunkel, Meg White or your uncle.
There's nothing wrong with shitetalkers, hard lads, slow walkers or even Luke Skywalker's aul lad.
There's nothing wrong with anger or sadness or crying. There's nothing right with manning-up and keeping it inside.
There's nothing wrong with second best or even last. There's nothing wrong with longing to upturn the hourglass.
There's nothing wrong with you.

Enda Cahill