Halloween

Its that time again, again!

So many people I've loved and lost and can't and never will stop loving.

The Bridge (Reflections)

There's a bridge its rough and old and barely fit
When I walk home its there I sit
Old rocks grimy, black and grey
A bench to rest and pass a day
Listening to ripples remembering a dream
Watching the sunlight caught in the stream

Watching ripples flow through the glow
Listening to quarrels of ebb and flow
Thinking of what I forgot to buy
What was I thinking to walk right by
Looking for the dream? in row of tins
Holding my head up trying not to give in

Its not hate too complex for that
Its shock and pain and grief
The impotent rage of disbelief
Welling up
Rushing out
A grief too deep to talk about
Sitting on the bridge watching
The stream splutter and splatter
The end of the dream

Listening to the ripples
A few feet below
Desperate to get away
Any where Just go

Go home light a fire
Watch the flames dance
The ripple and glow its almost a trance
Remember the days of laughter and love
It feels long ago and now its all done

Pain rushes back
No time to remember
No chance to forget
Rage in a bubble watch the glitter and shake
Needles of memories of insult and hate
Looking down from the bridge
At the hustle and bustle of storm tossed twigs

Biding

That’s what we’re doing me and the addict who is going through a very disgruntled withdrawal. She has at various times during the last 48 hours sat on my lap, stolen my chair, refused her breakfast, dinner and tea and is currently camped at my feet not to be comfortable or affectionate you understand. The little addict is at my feet so she can stare unblinking and half starved up into my face and put me right off everything.

I finally gave in and did ‘it’. In the early hours of this morning I ordered some more they should arrive in the next hour or three, and I strongly suspect that until they do arrive I’m going to continue getting the ‘look’. I can’t stand it. Its bad for me nerves.

So I thought since its impossible to concentrate I might as well come here and whinge. It is in spite of, although personally I suspect its hugely because of, the usual suspects.

Recently (ish) I’ve noticed something not at all interesting more what you might call and I definitely do call deliberately irritating. Its wives I hate the very sound and look of them and I hate them more than I hate the actual members of the criminal gang. I mean I can understand some desperate oul hag taking, if not actually demanding, the first and only offer they’re ever likely to get. Oh, lets call it ‘she’ even if anything less female is hard to imagine, but I can’t understand any of em remaining married to a psycho pervert. To me its confirmation of shared perversion.

Do I want to know the pervs are married? In my world and in my experience most people are married I had to come to Ireland to learn that some women escaped from Irish men and married civilised people. This is not in itself a problem, the women unquestionably did the right thing and good luck to em. What it means however and what I had to live here to learn is that a disproportionate number of middle aged/elderly Irish men are still single into their sixties and from where I’m sitting it looks in spite of all the evidence like every one of em is scared shitless a woman, for all I know any woman, wants em!

When I was young I was busy doing interesting stuff with boys of my own age and then I progressed to affairs with married men which I actually preferred. I’m really not a willing domestic, nor after all these years am I much domesticated. I as must be obvious by now share my home with my cats and dogs I don’t share with men or women and as for cooking their breakfast. Huh!

The truth however reluctant men are to hear it is women are better at being alone and over time its we who become less and less willing to share our bed or our lives. Its really the selfishness that comes with being used to independence whatever the downside and there must be some being independent has the enormous advantage of not having to compromise and remember compromise includes everything from what to eat, whats on tv or what colour we paint the damn hall. Its a biggie!

Imagine my annoyance when little ‘hints’ are dropped like farts into the airflow. It is as I’ve said irritating. One is as fat as lard and much fatter than me. I’m sure he does what his master tells him and I’m certain his wife is and has always been a very poor last.

Another one came to Ireland with what sounds like an Irish woman, read a couple of Irish history books written by the Irish of course and promptly decided he should have been Irish and he would do his best to correct the divine mistake by joining the IRA not up front and in your face. Oh no, secretly so he could carry on working and not get arrested for being a prize prat.

There’s really only one that none of the above applies to not because he wouldn’t have done it, he’s done everything else, but because he cant on any given day decide if he’s Arthur, Martha or Juliette.

I’ve had enough of them all they know what I want and anyone with a working grey cell would know its not them.

I have broached the subject of selling this hovel both to family who have long wanted me to shake the bog off my heels and to one or two people in town. Sale is going to happen mind you with the Irish property market the way in spite of the spin it still is that may not be in this century.