Skins Of The Flesh Book 1

SKINS OF THE FLESH BOOK 1 A collection of poems by Dermott O'Dowd

INTRODUCTION The skin, like poetry is multi layered. In life it must suffer many cuts, some deeper than others. The work presented here spans forty years and there has been much healing in that time with only minor abrasions to show now. There is no particular order to this short collection except for beginning with 'Love' and ending with 'Back before the beginning' two very healing pieces. Enjoy the journey.

CONTENTS Love........................................................ 1 Mud..........................................................2 Waste........................................................2 Fire...........................................................3 Rainbow Grey...........................................3 Moving......................................................4 Crescendo................................................. 4 Alone.........................................................5 Blue Nun...................................................5 Witness......................................................6 Remembering............................................6 Surrender..................................................7 Careless.....................................................8 Lost and Found..........................................8 Guilt..........................................................9 Serpentine.........................................10.. 11 Old Friend.........................................12..13 Scones and Tea........................................14 Waiting....................................................14 Poefaced............................................15..16 The Way..................................................17

Greenane Cemetary.................................18 Oversoul..................................................19 Peace..............................................20....21 Soul.........................................................22 Full Frontal.............................................22 I will Survive..........................................23 Born........................................................24 Too Sensitive..........................................25 From a Child's Eyes Staring.............26...27 Back Before The Beginning....................28

LOVE Yes! I love you And will gladly let you go, For you are made of finer stuff Than my careful dreams Command. For a while I tried to make you mine, Constructing emotional cages, Tempting you in, But you are made of finer stuff Than my careful schemes demand And walk through the Gathered forces of my feelings Always free. Yes! I love you

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And will gladly let you go, When I surrender And the doors of my heart Are held open, You come With all your careless themes in hand, Kiss me softly with your mind And I am yours Because you let me go.

MUD I’ve been looking in mud For things rooted in sky, Like a child eating chocolate, Face ,clothes, splattered, Most of the goodness lost. What could be found there? Fragmented reflections, Splintered into endless images, This sex, that sex. As the pieces meld, The whole becomes evident, A beast so rare and beautiful, It terrifies the living daylights Out of me. WASTE

Coming down here To the very ends of desire, The sexend of all endings, Where tails indulge in salivating mouths,

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Pulsatingly. I ask myself, Why the staggered death Of sperm let loose in hope of egg,? Why has nature undone so many.? A million acorns lost Never to spring a leaf, Who line the fermenting bellies of squirrels. Is that us? Expendable, fodder of the Gods, While a chosen few go on, As the rest go off To try again.

FIRE I dare to put my hands in the fire, The highest fire, The one that once was two and then Became One. And that which was held so secret, Opens out, Reveals it petals to this bee, Making it impossible to believe In the fragmented mirrors of relationships, As if they were outside the door And somehow Not me. RAINBOW GREY Its taken a very long time,

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But I finally never arrived. Gave up somewhere along the way, For no reason, After too many fine purposes Dried in desert suns and blew away. I guess I am happy Doing nothing, Walking the Earth and leaving alone The many hearts that beat And race the veins of day. Neither am I on the path Nor on the paths side, But rather taking in the view Of something, neither black nor white, But maybe, Rainbow grey.

MOVING

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It gets harder as I grow older, To uproot the tendrils of furniture, Take the pictures down from all embracing walls, Pack the books that read the dusty wooden shelves with words. I fall too easily as I get older, In love with slowness and too fixed things, With slug that silver trails for hours, And keeps some shine of stars For day. CRESCENDO

Ah! That moment again, Rising like a bloodied march moon, Haunting the fragile surfaces of day, Reverberating in the hollows of trees And those pregnant spaces Between thoughts and touches, Hinting, there is more. More to life than just this skinful thing, Balancing the weights of pasts and futures Anxiously conspiring to be born, Into now.

ALONE As a child, I never danced Or played or entered into games, There was no one like me where I lived, I was alone, My back against the walls of home, Of schools, of roads. As an adult I never dance or play Or enter into games. There is no one like me where I live, I am alone.

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My back against the walls of home, of work, Of life.

BLUE NUN Heavy tiered Rain eyed man With just a wink of wile, Before the wet beer altar Hands prayerful with alcohol, Remembering times that never happened, People that never were, And not caring but always sharing With strangers. Faceless, raceless nomads, Pub tribed warriors, Ghost ridden and rifled empty Of everything.

WITNESS I saw you come down the mountainside After seeing God, And rush to the nearest tavern And get wildly drunk. No better priest would I serve, Than you my drunken friend,

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And learn to lose Then leave the losing, And laugh, Laugh, At No thing.

REMEMBERING Before the ending of the memory, Primed to step into joy. The tone breaks, quivers, Leaving sadness to seep in. As if it were the nature of such things, That live and grow so wild and lovely, To reach a summit, Then tread the vacant air expecting More. More than death and falling down, More, Than Earths preposterous claim.

SURRENDER God, I am crazy, Left and lumped in lostness, Opened out Pared peach speared, Holy open

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And in love. Love defy me not, Nor define, outfine a plot. Systems, I know not, nor care. Like tides moon spelled And puppet waved, Not their will, But Thine…. Surrender, Those hanging things, Mat material mush, Drip solely Onto corrugated spires. Let them melt In light fires divine, Into ecstasy Blown like love Dovewinged, Poised. A feather sill hung And waiting Wind.

CARELESS Thunder ponders Bearding the heather edges

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And tumbling down the walls of Earths Coarse skin. I lay curdled, craved and full, In hollow silken sculptures fed Mirrored, monied and masturbated, Deaf to drumming on outer painted bones, Drinking tea and thinking Times, No mans friend And could not care less.

LOST AND FOUND I am lost and found At once and last. Cell separated, coagulated, In wider visions participated. Earthbodied,bloodrivered, With eyewind breathing Lungleaf sighs In the tallsky mind. This man, dogbarked and licking Knows You now, Sunheart beating In each and every core, With every starfilled nerve An open door.

GUILT Dark days, cloud hung Wetcloth grey. Nervous edges of hedges And trembling things, Sharpened by fearwind And flutterering red knife Red. Moments solarplexed, perplexed, Puzzled and riddled, Shadowed by a white knight Evil and mad. Waiting for his sword to bite, Souldrinker, Selfmurderer. Sense lost, insensitive, Poised on broken glass, Prepared to throw my own sweet bottle And it frozen, hanging there Highhand held and stretched out. For I the criminal, I the crime, Confessed of unnecessary evils, Take myself to the guillotine For justice to be done.

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SERPENTINE Our hero sat, Tramp and trumpled down, In Pete’s Caf at half past three in the afternoon, Sipping tea content, That battles anxious were over And Mrs Murgatroyd Would sleep The silent sleep of the dead. No one knew nor cared That in his pocket pined Soulsearcher Stone, Key to mysteries miraculous, Minder of Reality, Teller of Truth, Edged Razor Of the Middle Way, Next to a dirty hanky, Snotsoiled and germ ridden No one knew nor cared That in his mined memory A thousand incarnations settled, For he, Initiate most high ordained, Healer of impossible wounds, Master of love Mistress of Light

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Mystified and sanctified Clouding this filthy foul mongrel In methalated daze. At Pete’s Caf at half past three in the afternoon, Shortly before our hero ascended into Heaven A final tear fumbled down Falling on the bean stained table, Bad debt cleared. Christ had come and gone After many years of preaching in the wilderness To Serpentine ducks that never cared.

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OLD FRIEND Old friend, Given up and gone over To the other side. You, who once flew off Parliament Hill, As doorsteps grew milk bottles And London your Cathedral. You, who banged on dustbin lids Along the Goldhawk Road, A wild cymbal king heralding The New Age. Why have you left me? For kitchen tiles And a wooden wife, And the striped tribes That death claims, Everyday in coffin trains To Matthew and Son.

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Old friend, Given up and gone over To the other side. You, who once grew wings, Solved the mysteries of life, Turned your ladies into flowers And saved the ignorant in Hyde Park While Stones changed into butterflys And love fell down the days. Why have you deserted me, old friend? Your garden is a tidy cemetery now With memories buried too deep, While your glasshouse wife Shows her vast collection of goodies To those she carelessly steps on. Now a fully paid up member Of the suburban set. If you come near me now, I will at the very most Only ignore you.

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SCONES AND TEA Having gone out near the Edge, Found no one there And nearly caught a cold. I reluctantly came back For scones and tea. I have heard of others who have gone there But never came back And was told its oh so easy to go over To the other side. But having looked there, Apart from the odd Unicorn and Vestal Virgin, I was not much impressed, Besides, it was getting chilly, And I was feeling peckish. Maybe some other time.

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WAITING Waiting, waiting, Always waiting, Waiting and waiting, Grating waiting, Waiting and lateing, Wasting while waiting. If I am not seen to now, I will just, Well I will just, I will just, Have to Wait a little more.

POEFACED And having looked, And having wandered Over mountains, under seas, I have felt in endless faces Much more tears than in the oceans. So come to me, not in the morning Nor in the evening, and tell me not That you have died, For I have seen before the burning Locked in fight against the demons, Loved a hundred, then a thousand, Till God grew restless from the mourning

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Took me to the door of ages, Left to merge in all my wanderings, Nothing left but nevermore. Still the beauty, still the pain Over east and over west, Two of everything contriving, Making eggs of good and bad. Out they came and fast deserving, All they were and all they’ll be, Not a thing left for the dustman, Nothing wasted here and there. So you see and so it goes In and out before your eyes. Let it be and it will love you, Build your walls and you are dead. And I have not a single notion, How it ended, what its for, The present knows the fullest story, But you cannot help exploring Turning up and rolling over, Prodding with your mindless peni Till all is done to satisfy. So the soldier trods the heartache Never knowing what its for, As you grow the reasons working, Taking place before your eyes. When you’ve grown enough to take it,

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Its importance falls to pieces, And all your pointless thinking, Dies.

THE WAY I go between The too hygienic light And too trying dark. Feet, footing the razors edge, Bloodied and good. Not too much niceness or goodness But rather the spitting ache

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From diseased roots Occasionally well lit, but vague, A monster of a saint Ready to save those too easily devoured, Holding the great weight of my wisdom in carrier bags, Plundering me down Joyfully, Lest I would fly To that which is too good to be truth, Too bad to be wise. So it is my right, To travel the hardcore way, Expecting a wideness incomprehensible, An infinity of purposeless meanings, Not too tortured by what is light But decadent in desires That one day will molest The night.

GREENANE CEMETARY There are holes in the walls of Greenane Cemetary That let the dead leak out onto the road. I have written several letters to the County Council But no action has been taken to date. It is very distressing for the relatives

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Of the deceased, Who have to pray uselessly over uninhabited graves. At a funeral the other day I witnessed in broad daylight A soul seep through to the nearby road. I am tempted to take matters into my own hands And plug the holes with stones and mud To halt this unseemly exodus. But it strikes me that it is a matter for near relations To keep their loved ones in situ. As for me I refuse to be buried there For its quite pointless. I would be gone in no time. For surely a leaking cemetery, is no cemetery at all.

OVERSOUL You come! Before the bell of knock, Unannounced, spectacular.

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Before the I is ready to determine, Caught left handed and gasping, Trying vainly to catch up, Take control. You come! Glorious and inexhaustible, Tearing emotions to pieces, Like some useless confused jigsaw, Setting off on pointless courses, An animal caged By the impossible. You come! And are gone so soon And I who woke up at midnight, Lost the sun while it shone Lost the light while it ran Lost those eyes while they looked And took their soul reward. You come! And do not care for me And I let you, like some unabled host, Abuse my proffered hospitality, Plunder my treasured cellar of its wine, Left half drunk by the back door, Never to come back again.

PEACE Peace broke out without warning, The butcher reopened his shop at 11:59 pm, Selling the chopped dead, Business as per usual. How may I help you madam, sir? Peace splintered into the factories, Machines sent their workers to tea Just before midnight, Packed the tasty chemicals For the supermarket kings, Service with a smile. Peace took the soldiers into slavery, Gave them nice jobs in the city Very late at night, Making money for old rope, Sacred plastic cards For your convenience. Peace overwhelmed the farmers, Mowed them down in their fields Long after sundown, Killed the meat heavy beasts, Cellophane wrapped, A pleasure to serve you. Peace taught the children to be fools, Took their minds and made them obvious After their bedtime,

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To dream of freedom They will never see, We are at your service madam/sir? Peace took us all by surprise, Especially the very good men As the clock struck midnight, And Humpty Dumpty had a great fall Never to be put together again Have a nice day sir.

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SOUL

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I am afraid I can only see that which is invisible, Touch that which is without substance, For that is my true home One thousand of a millimetre beneath the surface. I am afraid I can only feel that which is unemotional, Taste that which is without flavour, For that is my true home A millionth of a millimetre below the surface. I am afraid I can only hear that which is soundless, Think that which is without mind, For that is my true home One billionth of a millimetre below the surface.

FULL FRONTAL Now is the time for not caring, For over in the far corner, Etched in black oil, Is my wretched name. For I the maker And the breaker, The lover and the hater, Poured it on, Thinking it was you and him

And the others too, Till now, The symbol in my own handwriting From the corner of my eye, Stands out Full frontal exposed Obscene me.

I WILL SURVIVE When it comes down to this, At the very least I will survive, Breathe lungfuls air, Eat handfuls bread. That other stuff, The luxury of dreams, Reflections, memories. The complicated emotions of relationships, Evaporate, When my roof rains down, My bread grows green, Lungs Jung hung. At time like this, Sex drips through my pores, Freud and boiled, My stomach is not a vagina, My alveoli cannot give you head. There is a can of beans that must be opened Spilt milk to be drunk

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And clean fresh air To be sucked in, For when it comes down to this, I will survive.

BORN The truelife is the birdlife, Knowing only flight, Not ever landing or needing to, At least until that time When greater Love Demands a crash into mud. I am a feathered thing, In truth that is me, I glide above the backs of clouds Where the real work is done, But I can only fly for so long Till tears heavier than rain, Anchor me down, Down again. It is the law, The one that goes in spirals, That pulls us into cages, Locks the leaden door on memory, A merciful act to spare us whilst in prison, From crying, crying, crying.

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Goodbye to you my aerial friends, The time has come to dive. The sentence is hard labour, Time off for good behaviour. Your Love can never leave me, For I will rise again. The weights have all been chosen, The cage with colours broken, I give myself to the birdcatcher To be born.

TOO SENSITIVE Sensitive as the winds breath on still water, As the birds beak in the worms stomach, As an asthmatics inbreath laden with dust mites, I am supersensitive to the nervous colours of other People auras And ask, Should I be here? Where feelings turn to cold stones Caving in my access to Worlds unbelievable, unimaginable. And the it occurs to me, Of course, I should be here To weigh my pain against my insensitivity, Balance the scales Become a true and fervent Martyr for a pointless cause.

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FROM A CHILD'S EYES STARING

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Yellow bones lay crusting before the dustman came, as the wind swept away the memories of old peoples brains. Eyes so young had seen only the well worn boiling street but not the blood that spluttered under the doors, when a child was born, where a war had torn. Within the fumbling walls, wild horrible screeches were heard from dirty beds, letting the big eared neighbours know of what they did to themselves. Innocence fell, a wilting ice pop paper in the nervous wind and never was it left in peace till the air stopped laughing. The little boy , who knew of other things, cultivated his tears that never saw sunlight but dropped like thorned molten lead onto the thoughts he could not understand. Alone he lived, enclosed in armoured flesh, waiting, waiting. In this time the sea that surrounded him, spoke in a stuttering of waves he could not comprehend. Stones appeared to know but

would not say and as for the Sun, it did not care. Yet the stars defied the deaf dark sky writing poems in every spark but he a mere child could not read such a complicated message. The straw bed that filled his lungs with cotton, he shared with his brother in eczematic pools of sweat and blood. There is something wrong with that boy! Outside his home he observed that people were losing time on their own clocks and watches. Children growing older walked on nearby roads and when they'd stop to play they'd do the things their Father'd say. When the bad guys were about to win, the Lone Ranger would save the day and no one seemed to care what was won or lost as long they were beaten and the good guys lived happily ever afterwards, singing along with Roy Rogers as he rode into the sunset on Trigger the wonder horse. God bless Ma, God bless Da and don't forget Superman. Then the cruel disappointment, no badmen, only his mind. Keeping to the footpath he observed that cars could smash his body and walls could block his mind, how could anyone know they were lost when no one knew the way. The world got smaller than when his father was a knee and mothers breast milk for free. Black nuns and pitch black brothers ate his brains for breakfast lunch and tea. Hail Mary full of punishment as leathers with coins and ends of billiard cues rained down on his fears. Each day the dreaded journey to the concentration camp where angry men who could not concentrate at all stomped his breathless body and his mind. Sentenced to ten years behind a desk with no time off for good behaviour. Mother driving and driven by her brutal God to gain a priest slave for her family, guarantee of Heaven attached to his lapels. Frantic for an answer, he looked into the eyes of older caving faces, but only saw darkness smelt their sins stinking of hell fire and woodbines. Saturated in the dusty tomes of stories of saints and martyrs, he, already tortured everyday was envious of their release but no matter how hard he prayed, no rescue attempt was ever made. From crucifixion to Fanny Hill and The Gingerman and renegade

Jesuit Joyce. Saved by the sins he was not sure of and an iron boat laden with a thousand stories, heading with cattle to the Promised Land. Mother crying at the door step, her dreams of salvation lost as her son walked out of prison, her eldest and most chosen taking her hopes away in a worn suitcase that she knew could never be retrieved. From always nearly dying to maybe nearly living. From crimes he never committed to a place where the innocent roam free. Ten pounds in his pocket and wearing his too tight confirmation suit, shrunk by tears and time, he stepped out into the morning light from wormlike tube, into a new world, breathing for the first time in his too short life, freedom, freedom, freedom

BACK BEFORE THE BEGINNING No further forward than before Vanity foiled Steps footless and fooled Ache empty For the sun’s fine breath Back before the beginning Faker coiled

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Tricks toothless and cooled Hold edges For the skins blind death What careless wave had flung me? Treasure piled Drops splattered and pooled Left nothing For the Styx bad debt Yet lost I am somehow found No less spoiled Job joined and schooled Open cored For the winds full net

SKINS OF THE

FLESH BOOK 1 A collection of poems by Dermott O'Dowd