A Recurring Nightmare

I don’t actually have a recurring nightmare of being chased through a moonlit forest by certain possible american presidential candidates but let’s pretend that I do as for some reason it’s funnier that way.

 

I found my self lost, wandering in a wood,

searching to get home not knowing if I could.

The moon up above lit the landscape below,

trees filled to the horizon planted row by row.

Grass on the ground glistened in pale moon light,

spics and specks of dust on the breeze took flight.

In the peace of the night what my ear did perceive,

was the gurgling of streams and the rustling of leaves.

While off in the dark I heard the fidgeting of small mammals,

but stomping closer and closer a much bigger animal.

As the thump, thump, thump grew ever nearer,

the beast’s ranting and raving became ever clearer.

I heard a snippet here and a snippet there,

and in between I heard it coughing on hair.

*cough* Megyn Kelly *cough* bimbo *cough*

beautiful wall *cough* fifty feet never enough!

A chill ran down my spine and my hands became sweaty,

my stomach turned as I recognised this yeti.

I turned to run but I feared it too late,

t’was so close now I felt doomed to my fate.

Fast as bowl in an Indian game of cricket,

I bolted from my marks as it burst through the thicket.

I tried to look away but was caught in its glare,

two eyes like cats’ arses poked out from under its hair.

Its wispy hair blowing in the wind swayed like grass,

and its lips pursed in anger look like the hole of an ass.

Its skin was all mottled and orange like Cheetos,

and the fingers on its hands were tiny as a baby toes.

It truly was hideous, a horror to behold,

and I ran for my life if the truth is to be told.

I crashed through branches and broke through the brush,

jumped over stumps and startled several foxes in my rush.

Even as fast I ran the creature kept pace,

I worried for what would be at the end of this race.

I don’t know how long I ran, it seemed like an hour,

sweaty and tired, I really was in need of a shower.

I came to a clearing very much pleased that it was lost from my sight,

so sweaty and tired I decided a sit would be alright.

I sat and I panted and I tried to catch my breath,

when before me I saw a sight that scared me almost to death.

Silhouetted in the moonlight a shadow rose from the earth,

it was a hulking creature to ugly for a mother to birth.

Its eyes were fishlike dead, like that of an office worker,

its features carved from misery and body of a hamburger.

Its mouth unsettling and shaped like a that of a goldfish,

I looked around for a genie, I only needed one wish.

It reared on its hind legs and showed its great bulk,

I ran there and then, there was no waiting on this hulk.

I ran and I ran but it sailed close behind,

I was too tired to run and feared my fate was now signed.

Still I ran and I ran though my limbs begged to slump,

when up ahead I heard that familiar thump, thump, thump.

There I found myself twixt pig and puffed corn,

the horrors ahead made me wish I had never been born.

The beasts looked to me and then to each other,

then in animal tongues berated one another.

With vicious rasping mouths and hideous features,

though not understanding, I felt the hate between these creatures.

Their yelling boomed as they thumped on their chests,

I nearly swooned as my senses, by noise were oppressed.

Louder and louder, they grew closer and closer,

soon came to punches either side of my shoulders.

They ripped and they struck and they beat and they yelled,

I huddled low, curled up like a chick still fully shelled.

The noise grew so loud it filled my world with its violence,

when suddenly I woke. Panting, sweat soaked, in still and sacred silence.

 

 

 

Put On A Smiling Face

Thanks to many brave people depression has become easier to talk about. It’s still not easy, it leaves you very vulnerable. Though we’ve come a long way our attitude has changed from one which brushes aside depression as self-pitying whining to one where it’s a problem to be fixed. There are many forms of depression and each with its own problems, but for me it comes in phases which I know will pass. To me it’s an inconvenience, like rain, and like rain it’s something I want to complain about, but I don’t. It’s easier to stay quiet. When it’s seen as a problem you always fear people’s advice. The last thing you need when you feel like your life’s shit and unravelling by the second is someone confirming that for you.

 

You’ve just got to smile,

only for a short while.

Keep sadness hidden,

until all company’s ridden.

Then safe all alone,

expose a face of stone.

Your true face,

with all false pretense erase.

With no contrived laughter,

to stop questions thereafter.

To stop examining of behaviour,

and thinking that you might need a saviour.

To stop the inside from showing,

and others from knowing,

that inside you’re manic,

swirling in existential panic.

 

How are you doing tonight?

Always answer “all right.”

Easier than explaining,

fear of looking like complaining.

Stop anyone from thinking,

that you’re anaesthetising by drinking.

Running away from emotion,

by guzzling potion.

Stop hearing the same advice,

once, twice, thrice,

“try and be happy,”

“no need to feel crappy,”

“pull yourself together,”

but there’s no need for “just feel better,”

after all it’s just passing weather.

The Good Friday Ban

Every year in Ireland we argue about the Good Friday ban. The for side complaining we drink too much and we should have a day off the drink. I don’t buy this as every year I see off licences ravaged the day before. Good Friday is not a day off drinking in this country. It encourages drinking through its attempts at curtailment. I personally will be drinking this Good Friday, not because I particularly feel inclined to drink tonight, but because I feel this is an infringement on my freedom of choice and my wish to be free to not be Catholic. This is not my faith and I should not be forced to observe its customs, yet I find myself trapped by them. Even here, I was supposed to be uploading a poem about depression today, but here we are.

 

It’s just one day,

they always say.

We drink to much,

use it as a crutch.

But a little known fact,

about how we act,

we don’t need the state,

to make our drinking abate.

You can keep your drinking at bay,

any old day.

Even many at a time,

it’s not a crime.

Could choose to be sober,

for all of October!

But it should be your choice,

in your words and your voice.

Not because of someone else’s religion,

not even a smidgen.

So repeal the Good Friday ban,

for every woman and man.

And let use rejoice,

in our new found freedom of choice.

Absolutism Is Absolutely Wrong

Being sick recently I found myself spending a lot of time on Facebook paying closer attention to groups and pages I previously only perused, in a vain attempt to stave off total boredom for a few minutes. While failing miserably I did notice one thing. Which was that, in an atheist group I’m a part of, the comments and shares had begun to take on what I found to be an uncomfortably absolutist and quite aggressive stance towards religions and the belief in god. I couldn’t read these posts without the word “zealotry” popping into my head, for that’s what I was reading. It served as a reminder that you can find zealots for any cause and even when on your side they are dangerous.

 

I just can’t stand the zealous,

their single minded surety of being right,

though something of which I am often jealous,

is terrifying for the horrors it can incite.

Their absolutism puts them on one side,

the right side and you who disagree on the other,

the side whose opinions they cannot abide,

and who with their truth, the one truth they will smother.

 

I cannot stand the deafness of zealots.

They resist all evidence that contradicts their truth,

brushing it aside like a child’s BB Gun pellets,

with fingers in ears so all opponents are mute.

Their heads buried in sand yet still shouting,

they try to force their opinions on any and all,

while presenting a face of never doubting,

though within, why they believe, they may not recall.

 

All consideration lost in blinkered blustering zeal,

there’s no possibility of accepting new information

and changing opinions based on what’s real,

for zeal needs no evidence for confirmation.

The gulf between the real and a zealot’s truth,

forces them to live in a fantasy world,

in which reality can only be seen to pollute,

and cause their anger to be unfurled.

For opinions based on ideals and not on evidence,

and adhered to with the unquestioning of an extremist,

are doomed to cause pain, suffering and violence,

regardless of being Muslim, Christian or Atheist.

 

 

Sick of This Shit (It Will Happen Again)

Over the past 24 hours I’ve been fortunate to find that all my friends in Belgium both native and import are safe. I’ve also been bloody surprised at how many people I know have been living in Brussels without me knowing (shit friend I know). This doesn’t change my reaction, not one of anger, shock or outrage, but one of deep sadness. For this will not be the last attack on European soil and that these attacks are pithy when compared to that of which they are a symptom.

The brutal conflict in Syria and Iraq is of western making and our policies in dealing with the conflict and the refugee crisis associated with it are what is putting us in danger (I do not think that this happening  mere days after bribing Turkey with EU membership talks to stop refugees is a coincidence). What the region needs is stability, all parties in Syria must be brought to the table, and for real discussions to begin, while in Iraq the Sunni need to be politically empowered which means allowing the Baathists to table. Both will need international support in stabilising, rebuilding and purging ISIS. Sadly our reply to this will be more bombs. Bombs we cannot afford, bombs which the UK are paying for using disability benefits and making cuts to policing.

It will happen again and we’ll act surprised horrified, put a filter on our profile pictures, say Je Suis Hounslow or wherever as if the words even mean anything to the french at this stage, more bombs will fall and again we will learn nothing.

 

We are at war.

It’s a war we started.

We believed America’s painted whore,

and jumped in whole hearted.

Bombed and brutalised the middle east,

like a blood crazed beast.

Now dead lie in Brussels,

like in Paris, Basra and Baghdad,

crushed by greed for power’s muscles,

and the illusions of kindness we had.

We will respond again with violence,

all thoughts of peace and understanding,

will be met with callous silence,

ignored for yet more political grandstanding.

 

 

International Wo-Still-Don’t-Make-As-Much-As-Men’s Day!

Happy International Women’s Day all. A great opportunity to celebrate how far equality has come and to reflect on the many struggles that lay ahead…. and remind internet morons that there is an International Men’s Day  and it’s on November 19th (people seriously need google before getting indignant). Official Men’s Day website is here. More importantly here’s a nice poem about women and income inequality. Yay!

 

 

Some are strong, some are weak,

some like cabinets made of teak.

Some are smart, some are stupid,

some are still waiting to be struck by cupid.

Some are big, some are small,

some wont rest ’til they have it all.

Some are young, some are old,

some refuse to do as they’re told.

Some are loud, some are quiet,

some have been known to riot.

But one thing all women share,

is that their pay is unfair.

Twenty percent less than men,

whether it be euro, dollar or  the yen,

and it does not take a mighty scholar,

to know that they want their whole damn dollar.