Aro Poems and Such

I know there is an end to Phoenix Park the line stretches out beyond sight But I know I've been told. it's hard for me to separate the cricket field from the other field A sign says one thing but it's rusty and old I don't know if I can trust it. Wellington's dick stands high (i'm not stubble) marking the land a darker colour. You can't help but see it's outline up there making (me) cold. off the path is filled with scat shit dropped from deer declaring 'this is nature get off it and go home.' I cannot go home, not here.

When I was younger, not much younger than today I was invaded, spat out to the ground. Looking back it's all so clear. the bright blue suits masking swinging - a circus show yet nothing but smoke. You told me I would love her or somebody else: a face, mythical object, fetishised and summoned like Helen with every track Pounded into my H(D)ead. 4 crossed crooners charting the con|science making the map making me. She liked Orpheus and tennis and questions complicated thoughts complicated answers, answers she may not like. And I liked her, or so I (was) t[ho](a)ught. You own me, hold my collar - I ador(no) you! Daddy! shaped my desire fed me sweets (made me rotten voice's volume filled with  ash your lies nearly drove me to join you in unKhristian matrimony; J'Acuse-achoo.) Maybe They were right. to reject the poet and take solace in the flowers of distant foretold fields.

We used to have a lot of fun before Teddy moved to Dun Laoghaire. Now I sit here thinking about it. Tea does not taste the same (he took my kettle as a gift what he called 'memorabilia'     I call a scar.) when cooked in a soup pot on the stove. It stinks there with a smell too dense for (just) two nostrils. First Ms. Whiskers went away (then known as Miss. Kitty they even take your name) and I thought to myself     that maybe it was the end. But it wasn't, there were still so many friends to lose. They will say we'll meet again they will say they love us, but they don't, they don't know they don't, but they don't. And like that forgotten state I ache to be remembered. Turtley, Sharky, Vader, Herbert the Noble Toad, all one by one sent down to the chapel. What does Mr. Whiskers have that my tea did not? Is he more sweet? More warm and kind? Why do I have to be expendable? We used a stump for the table and the plates were made with mud. Now we've gone...