How many times, can I keep going round

and round editing what I edited yesterday. 

I truly live in a roundabout city, it’s like vertigo.

I come from a no-go-area, for years and years, 

I wrote and rewrote like an O.C.D. obsession as if 

I knew this stroke would happen. 

Prophetic poetry, there’s something to this

Don’t know what and don't want to know.

It's magic like me becoming a writer 

accidentally on purpose. 

For years and years like a fledgling writer 

regurgitating these words of I-am-ness. 

I felt compelled to put them down as if

I knew there was more to these words. 

I was on death's door, my words 

and the love of my children 

pulled me back. 

I dig deep into my locked-in self.  A trilogy

         of poets head-stoned beside me, Raymond 

      Carver, James Simmons, Patrick Kavanagh 

      to name but a few. Their intangible essence 

      seeped into me and the wonderful people

      I met through poetry, through you I touched

Humanity, a street kid from North Belfast.

 

really doe’s rule ok, 

mythology is made of stone

we are made of flesh. 

Why can't we throw the stones away and live in peace.

Why do we hark back to the past. 

When I get there, I forget to remember.

 

I flap my wings t along the way.and fall head-long into the under-

world like Orpheus or Lazerous

A mythological figure, I roll the boulder

More like sysifus, I’m on a roll. We have

Almost drained the blood from the stone. Mythos is just a stone’s throw away  from humanity. Peace.

 How many times can I go around

and around editing what I edited

yesterday. I truly live in a roundabout-

city, it’s like vertigo. I come from a no-

go-area, for year and years I wrote

and rewrote like an O.C.D. obsession

as if I knew this stroke would happen.

 

Prophetic, there’s something to this,

don’t want to know like me becoming

a writer. Accidently on purpose. Years

like a fledgling writer regurgitating

moating words of I-am-ness.

 

I was on deaths door, my words and the love

Of my children pulled me back. I dig deep into

my locked-in self.  A trilogy of poets head-stoned beside me, Raymond Carver, James Simmons, Patrick Kavanagh to name but a few.

 

Their intangible essence seeped into me and the wonderful people friends I met along the way.

Humanity really doe’s rule ok, mythology is made of stone, we are made of flesh. Why cant we throw the stones away and live in peace, why do we hark back to the past. When I get there, I forget to remember.

 

I flap my wings and fall head-long into the underworld like Orpheus or Lazerous

A mythological figure, I roll the boulder

More like sysifus, I’m on a roll. We have

Almost drained the blood from the stone.                                                   

Mythos is just a stone’s throw away from

humanity. Mould no more death-masks.