Wheels rattling rusting tracks,
Faded red brick buildings dilapidated,
Spray painted lurid aerosol walls
Scrawled with nothing slogans,
Sleepers slumber in gravel and wrappers
Where grim goliaths glazed in sunsets,
loom at docks,
Their dusk-lit sullen silhouettes,
Are crowned with cranes and office blocks.

Our days are dull vignettes,
Loose threads of cigarettes,
Ashtrays and train journeys,
The hurried cadences of
Life sentences and autobiographies.

'Have your tickets ready, please.'

Harmonstown.

Love lost and found on dart carriages
The windows illustrate passages
Of daily lives inscribed on platforms,
The half-formed thoughts the stations know,
Of strangers bustling to and fro.

Outside...

The world flies by,
It's ghostly slideshow
Flickers window panes,
Frames tomorrows dreams
The projector glimmers
Silver glow
Waxed in shadow
On theatre screens.

Raheny.
Sunset.

A summer evening's warmth subsides
Lamps flit by like fireflies;
The street-lit tears of burnt out eyes
That pierce the sides of afternoons
Glower in through gloom of dusk.

And in the darkened train I dream,
Repercussions of discussions
Of the things that might have been.

I'll come clean;
I regret my behaviour yesterday.

Killester.

''¦signal failure'¦'

Films of cold sweat
The reel has changed
The stale aftertaste
Of regret lingers on tongue
No nails left to speak of
Chewing fingers and
Sucking lemons
The spirit vibrates
Freight train tremens
Of catatonic delirium
A chilling realisation
Of nothing to say...

No photographs or memories,
We cannot hang them on wall,
We just can't develop.

In dark rooms,
Film noir and free,
I fretted fingers
Through his hair,
Eyes luminous grey,
We shared first glow of day;
Caresses and awkward smiles.

Sometimes springtime take a while.
In the blue room we were in denial.

We just weren't prepared to trust...

(...Clontarf...)

But given time...

The empathy of his breath on mine
Unwinds a thousand childhood crimes
Unlocks a thousand doors for me
'til dreams rhyme with reality.

I know...
It meant nothing to you...
It meant to me...

But...

Connolly.

'Change for outer suburban routes.
We would like to remind passengers'¦'

It's time for home truths.

The soul is a tattered page,
Torn from the spine of it's binding,
Condemned to a life out of context.

There is always a subtext...

We tasted lust on snowdrops
That slept vagrant under frost
And drank dewdrops of lilacs
that grew in fragrant clutches
At our feet; sweet aphrodisiacs
from tongue and on cheek.

Tara Street.
Please mind the gap.

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