Earthside
The car rooves radiate autumnal bliss
due to the amount of shed leaves slumbering
and sloping along the windscreens. The sides
are remarkably leaf free and the ground calls
out to me from the balcony, attempting to
seduce me into falling into the pile that has
gathered on the road. I politely decline.
♜ ♞ ♟
Street lights are still on and the sun is granting
us an appearance. The puddle streaked ground
diffuses orange, light blue and grey. The black
lamp posts seem even more unsettling in this
mood, the sky cracking under the pressure.
♜ ♞ ♟
Inside, I squint through the rain streaked window
seeing the motorcycle headlights compete with the
cat's eyes for the most clear swirls in sight. Meanwhile
the Ford beside it is unmistakable in its yellowing,
reflective lighting as it melts into the watery ground.
♜ ♞ ♟
Even without the soul or even the muse, I could still
recall those times before the life blockers. Times where
walking downhill on a cobbled road still had an allure to it.
The streetlights bright while as well as the traffic. Memories
of street gangs, switchblades and misplaced gentlemen fill
my sight and I reminisce about the times I was accosted.
♜ ♞ ♟
I would have gestured for them to move on but it was too late.
♜ ♞ ♟
The old tram lines gave me a whelp of anxiety even though
they had long been decommissioned. But my face mask did
little to dissuade my audience to disappear, until I mentioned
the name Barry Prosser and then they got the message.
Disappearing into one of the many graffiti strewn, ripped poster
and refuse tipped back streets near the house.
♜ ♞ ♟
My passport photo has two bullet holes. A legacy of the last
revolution. There's also a small streak of ink on my forehead
in the photo. That was a reminder that I snuck off before the
invasion. I'm considered an "intrepid" because of that.
♜ ♞ ♟
On my door, a splurge of black paint sits awkwardly with the
mahogany and the burnt out post boxes lie not far from the
doorway, the autumnal foliage offering them a veneer of
classical tradition, but ultimately it is akin to a vinous moon burn.
♜ ♞ ♟
I carry on staring at the rain streaked circles of l'eau rouge,
celadon, olive, pear and mellow yellow. Hoping for better.
due to the amount of shed leaves slumbering
and sloping along the windscreens. The sides
are remarkably leaf free and the ground calls
out to me from the balcony, attempting to
seduce me into falling into the pile that has
gathered on the road. I politely decline.
♜ ♞ ♟
Street lights are still on and the sun is granting
us an appearance. The puddle streaked ground
diffuses orange, light blue and grey. The black
lamp posts seem even more unsettling in this
mood, the sky cracking under the pressure.
♜ ♞ ♟
Inside, I squint through the rain streaked window
seeing the motorcycle headlights compete with the
cat's eyes for the most clear swirls in sight. Meanwhile
the Ford beside it is unmistakable in its yellowing,
reflective lighting as it melts into the watery ground.
♜ ♞ ♟
Even without the soul or even the muse, I could still
recall those times before the life blockers. Times where
walking downhill on a cobbled road still had an allure to it.
The streetlights bright while as well as the traffic. Memories
of street gangs, switchblades and misplaced gentlemen fill
my sight and I reminisce about the times I was accosted.
♜ ♞ ♟
I would have gestured for them to move on but it was too late.
♜ ♞ ♟
The old tram lines gave me a whelp of anxiety even though
they had long been decommissioned. But my face mask did
little to dissuade my audience to disappear, until I mentioned
the name Barry Prosser and then they got the message.
Disappearing into one of the many graffiti strewn, ripped poster
and refuse tipped back streets near the house.
♜ ♞ ♟
My passport photo has two bullet holes. A legacy of the last
revolution. There's also a small streak of ink on my forehead
in the photo. That was a reminder that I snuck off before the
invasion. I'm considered an "intrepid" because of that.
♜ ♞ ♟
On my door, a splurge of black paint sits awkwardly with the
mahogany and the burnt out post boxes lie not far from the
doorway, the autumnal foliage offering them a veneer of
classical tradition, but ultimately it is akin to a vinous moon burn.
♜ ♞ ♟
I carry on staring at the rain streaked circles of l'eau rouge,
celadon, olive, pear and mellow yellow. Hoping for better.
⏩ Christopher Owens was a reviewer for Metal Ireland and finds time to study the history and inherent contradictions of Ireland. He is currently the TPQ Friday columnist.
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