Archaic windows punished by forlorn lighting; knitting amidst the saddle backed hues of further disdain; cradling humanity.
Four men squat round an ingrate table; embittered yet distinguished; as slight calls and caterwauls grace the cavernous boudoirs of eternal containment.
Sundry playing cards; flounced and squandered; toiling selective ploughs; tunnelling fervent vows; perennially juxtaposed towards the beech wood shards; splintered and sewn; sheltering whiskey; laid to rest beside a multitude of vintage Baltic malts.
The men draped in casual attire; caps jauntily proposed; sliding lazily over mahogany faces; staunchly blackened; collectively beckoning a finite prologue; a paramount address.
“Arthur was a good man, needlessly complex yet…”
“Reasonably priced?”
Choral asphyxia; tedious laughter stole upon the stolid smoke plum zephyr; gliding plaintively; blanketing the Patagonian carpet with tenuous breath; evading the limbic climes of the red brick chimney. Incumbent tongues lashing; spouting seasonal misgivings.
“You could say so! He never put a foot wrong, no matter how convoluted the evening became, the night would always pass without exception.”
“Surely it was always the day that followed the night! Or had death itself loomed ominously o’er your heart for so long that doubt took hold?”
“Possibly… although, I have always assumed the contrary to be true.”
A triumvirate of voices weaving a mournful throw; painfully produced; shadowing exquisite demise; delicately laced with provincial tense and senseless sibilance. Stalling tentatively; interrupted by a fourth party; teasing poetic license; linguistically imbued.
“He, who lives by the rifle, dies by the rifle. A clichéd response to such a despicable turn of events; although, one could never argue with such a truthful sentiment…”
“Well then Farrell; would you like to share with us any other pearls of wisdom? As I’ve never doubted that poker was your game; however, I’m unsure of your position on war.”
“War? Whatever do you mean? War is nothing but a glorified respite, a catalytic reprise; war needs no explanation! Show me that vanity knows no bounds and I’ll respect your response; no matter how contrived it may seem to be! Surely you don’t believe that there is any justice in violence, order in genocide and love in death! Surely your reasoning tells you otherwise?”
The three wound apprehension; clockwork masochism; ticking profusely; harbouring eloquent misgivings; privy to quixotic souls; haunting quick fix folders of their own accord; modernist miens. Strict rhythmic pulsation; snare drums crackle under sensuous verbosity; pseudo passive remarks granulate endlessly; cereal spilled over proverbial dreams; lucidity; liquid vespers don amalgamated gowns.
“You always were a pacifist bastard!”
“Well; if that was always the case, how come it was I who served during the rising? Is your memory so fickle that you forget my sacrifice? That you forgo common courtesy! For God’s sake! For God’s sake… have I suffered and lingered; sailing amidst the atheistic farrows of eternal damnation; only to be questioned by those who wear cowardice as a badge of honour. Polished and tokenised, sanctified and lost. Did Arthur fall under a revenant shade for nothing… or will I succumb to the vanity of lust and forever remain a lifeless machine? Believe me lads, life is not for the taking; it’s for the receiving; so supposedly reserved… a masterful monologue.”
Farrell hastened his step; bounding from his chair he poured retinal scorn; solidified sadism rushed off the feet of ecumenical lurchers; pacing arsenic corridors, brandishing squalid irons. Upon reaching the lacquered door he paused in preparation; waving to the three amiably; casting aside his bitter disposition.
The wind blew eastward canvassing bluish pamphlets; clockwise to the west; perpendicular to the south; grazing the chin of the north; past Carr’s Inn; molesting the collective skirts of ambiguity. The street disorganised; devoid of stringent planning; incoherent paving; cobbled usher, molten hoof, raging unapologetically; the grit unbearable; an aggravated aria partitioned without effort.
He stumbled onward; creaking open the door of Carr’s Inn; an ancient establishment, rustic and odorous; charming in a way; forsaken in another. Vines crept down from the rafters above; wafting genially; greeting his weary eyes with arthritic abandon; fiddlers fiddling; pipers piping; drummers drumming; bankers fiddling; contrasting caustically with the downtrodden obituary from which he was birthed.
He approached the kitchen; girdled and diminished; skewering the perimeter:
Ten yellowed rashers; succulent, scalding; thrashing round the pan; spitting sulphuric alibis, inelegantly throughout the air. Carnivorous aromatherapy; the honesty of arrogance; spilling o’er onto the grill; seething, teething at the bit; surrounding the porter and denying his breath.
- Phonemic treason…
The proclamation distilled; dissipated quizzically. The attendants took little heed;
scurrying to and fro, surveying excessive kernels; drenched in liver oil, fermenting amidst cyclic herbs, cascading downward, surmounting a culinary gauntlet.
- Condiment and brine…
The porter found reassurance wanting; suggestively twiddling with sunflowers seeds; making no distinction, an allusion to tepidity; escaping gratuitous recollection. The unanimous fervour teased implicit vowels; fornication from the tip of an irate tongue; crying relentlessly; an irrational chorus, seasoned; dripping with humility, insincerity and excretion.
Farrell sat attentively; siphoning saliva from his pectoral glands; his mouth dry; regrettably parched; eyeing the solicitors whose rent boy tastes disgusted his moral fibre. The boys or possibly girls; gender bore no regal song; owls dispatched on hallowed ground; ergo phallic wistful charm; narcissistic woe; little older than sixteen; played with their hair incessantly; sexuality was a misnomer that proofed no course. He turned to one; gauging some ten weight liquorice.
“Tell me son; have you the permission of your father to do this?”
“My father remains whoever… has the financial awareness to purchase my services.”
“And you have no qualms about this; no regrets or concern?”
“Money as they say speaks volumes of the rich and cares little for the poor…legerdemain.”
Aplitic foetus tore asunder; plunder carefully; saunter tethered; halo; sweetest halo; felinity ensued, femininity pursued the prize; pristine topped pistols chasing carousel arbitrators. Oats and barley or was it barley and oats, ate through darkened pastures; bipolar religiosity. Anaemic polemics rose above lilac textures; shells of glass, housed tender crustaceans, whose scientific classifications eluded all but hope.
Hourglass figurines plagued dissenting cries; Farrell awoke; resplendent in his rags; his cap perched upon the tantamount book shelf; his jacket deplored, fragmented; he questioned his whereabouts; for certain, hereabouts he lay. The walls covered in newspaper clippings acting as insulation; caressed his haggard toes; five of which peculiarly moist; the other five reasonably dry. A man round fifty; bearded; grey, inexorably prude, cowered before him; rummaging through the cupboard that stood mere inches from the bed on which he had slept.
The man produced a letter; passing it forcibly unto the solemn palms of Farrell; crumpled and feckless; Farrell read aloud:
Solitary ambiguity
Acquiesce atonal souls;
Surmount the transcendental arch
Of passive farrowed prose;
For verbal discourse;
Rectified, modernised; deposed;
Has ne’er sanctified our hearts;
Our transcendental souls.
“Poetry? I have no time for poetry! There are questions to be asked! Where am I my friend! And why did you hand me this piece of convoluted nonsense? Honestly; I doubt that my mind is privy to the powers of metered phrase, at least at this instance!”
“Be grateful at least, for all is well; I found you outside; they say you were removed from a local tavern; however, I’m unsure as to where exactly. Nevertheless; I took you in; I’ve ne’er been one to pass on a self effacing act, so I made good of it.”
“Thank you; for that answer alone I am grateful; so who are you exactly?”
Farrell gazed artistically, craving prefixed lepers; expecting a chaste reply; papers peeled; articulate artifices soon played a delightful role; tension released; venison supplied.
“The name’s Delaney; I’m a scribe by trade, alas a quickened one; trivial though passably quick witted. Some say humourless, others a wonder; many contrary.”
“So it was you who wrote that?”
“Nay; it was my cousin; a man whose verse lives on borrowed time; it’s needlessly complex.”
“Your cousin wasn’t by any chance Arthur Delaney; was he?”
“No; it was Stephen; I can’t say that I know an Arthur. Anyhow you’re on the Southside; down from O’Connell Street; reckoning a wager are we?”
“Cheers; but I doubt I’ll be staying here much longer.”
Empathetically gesturing westward.
“Suit yourself; I’ve work to do; though leave the door open, I welcome a draught!”
Trust the maker; creator of life; cranial cavities reposed, usurp indignation; practice spontaneity; the Eucharistic heather; the sanctimonious musings of mathematical expositions. Turn the handle; pick the lock; tool the teeth; salt the pepper. Farrell poised and reticent; removed himself from under the silken sheets; unaware of his fallacious abode; fortunately torn; neither resurrected nor denied.
Bastards.
Four men squat round an ingrate table; embittered yet distinguished; as slight calls and caterwauls grace the cavernous boudoirs of eternal containment.
Sundry playing cards; flounced and squandered; toiling selective ploughs; tunnelling fervent vows; perennially juxtaposed towards the beech wood shards; splintered and sewn; sheltering whiskey; laid to rest beside a multitude of vintage Baltic malts.
The men draped in casual attire; caps jauntily proposed; sliding lazily over mahogany faces; staunchly blackened; collectively beckoning a finite prologue; a paramount address.
“Arthur was a good man, needlessly complex yet…”
“Reasonably priced?”
Choral asphyxia; tedious laughter stole upon the stolid smoke plum zephyr; gliding plaintively; blanketing the Patagonian carpet with tenuous breath; evading the limbic climes of the red brick chimney. Incumbent tongues lashing; spouting seasonal misgivings.
“You could say so! He never put a foot wrong, no matter how convoluted the evening became, the night would always pass without exception.”
“Surely it was always the day that followed the night! Or had death itself loomed ominously o’er your heart for so long that doubt took hold?”
“Possibly… although, I have always assumed the contrary to be true.”
A triumvirate of voices weaving a mournful throw; painfully produced; shadowing exquisite demise; delicately laced with provincial tense and senseless sibilance. Stalling tentatively; interrupted by a fourth party; teasing poetic license; linguistically imbued.
“He, who lives by the rifle, dies by the rifle. A clichéd response to such a despicable turn of events; although, one could never argue with such a truthful sentiment…”
“Well then Farrell; would you like to share with us any other pearls of wisdom? As I’ve never doubted that poker was your game; however, I’m unsure of your position on war.”
“War? Whatever do you mean? War is nothing but a glorified respite, a catalytic reprise; war needs no explanation! Show me that vanity knows no bounds and I’ll respect your response; no matter how contrived it may seem to be! Surely you don’t believe that there is any justice in violence, order in genocide and love in death! Surely your reasoning tells you otherwise?”
The three wound apprehension; clockwork masochism; ticking profusely; harbouring eloquent misgivings; privy to quixotic souls; haunting quick fix folders of their own accord; modernist miens. Strict rhythmic pulsation; snare drums crackle under sensuous verbosity; pseudo passive remarks granulate endlessly; cereal spilled over proverbial dreams; lucidity; liquid vespers don amalgamated gowns.
“You always were a pacifist bastard!”
“Well; if that was always the case, how come it was I who served during the rising? Is your memory so fickle that you forget my sacrifice? That you forgo common courtesy! For God’s sake! For God’s sake… have I suffered and lingered; sailing amidst the atheistic farrows of eternal damnation; only to be questioned by those who wear cowardice as a badge of honour. Polished and tokenised, sanctified and lost. Did Arthur fall under a revenant shade for nothing… or will I succumb to the vanity of lust and forever remain a lifeless machine? Believe me lads, life is not for the taking; it’s for the receiving; so supposedly reserved… a masterful monologue.”
Farrell hastened his step; bounding from his chair he poured retinal scorn; solidified sadism rushed off the feet of ecumenical lurchers; pacing arsenic corridors, brandishing squalid irons. Upon reaching the lacquered door he paused in preparation; waving to the three amiably; casting aside his bitter disposition.
The wind blew eastward canvassing bluish pamphlets; clockwise to the west; perpendicular to the south; grazing the chin of the north; past Carr’s Inn; molesting the collective skirts of ambiguity. The street disorganised; devoid of stringent planning; incoherent paving; cobbled usher, molten hoof, raging unapologetically; the grit unbearable; an aggravated aria partitioned without effort.
He stumbled onward; creaking open the door of Carr’s Inn; an ancient establishment, rustic and odorous; charming in a way; forsaken in another. Vines crept down from the rafters above; wafting genially; greeting his weary eyes with arthritic abandon; fiddlers fiddling; pipers piping; drummers drumming; bankers fiddling; contrasting caustically with the downtrodden obituary from which he was birthed.
He approached the kitchen; girdled and diminished; skewering the perimeter:
Ten yellowed rashers; succulent, scalding; thrashing round the pan; spitting sulphuric alibis, inelegantly throughout the air. Carnivorous aromatherapy; the honesty of arrogance; spilling o’er onto the grill; seething, teething at the bit; surrounding the porter and denying his breath.
- Phonemic treason…
The proclamation distilled; dissipated quizzically. The attendants took little heed;
scurrying to and fro, surveying excessive kernels; drenched in liver oil, fermenting amidst cyclic herbs, cascading downward, surmounting a culinary gauntlet.
- Condiment and brine…
The porter found reassurance wanting; suggestively twiddling with sunflowers seeds; making no distinction, an allusion to tepidity; escaping gratuitous recollection. The unanimous fervour teased implicit vowels; fornication from the tip of an irate tongue; crying relentlessly; an irrational chorus, seasoned; dripping with humility, insincerity and excretion.
Farrell sat attentively; siphoning saliva from his pectoral glands; his mouth dry; regrettably parched; eyeing the solicitors whose rent boy tastes disgusted his moral fibre. The boys or possibly girls; gender bore no regal song; owls dispatched on hallowed ground; ergo phallic wistful charm; narcissistic woe; little older than sixteen; played with their hair incessantly; sexuality was a misnomer that proofed no course. He turned to one; gauging some ten weight liquorice.
“Tell me son; have you the permission of your father to do this?”
“My father remains whoever… has the financial awareness to purchase my services.”
“And you have no qualms about this; no regrets or concern?”
“Money as they say speaks volumes of the rich and cares little for the poor…legerdemain.”
Aplitic foetus tore asunder; plunder carefully; saunter tethered; halo; sweetest halo; felinity ensued, femininity pursued the prize; pristine topped pistols chasing carousel arbitrators. Oats and barley or was it barley and oats, ate through darkened pastures; bipolar religiosity. Anaemic polemics rose above lilac textures; shells of glass, housed tender crustaceans, whose scientific classifications eluded all but hope.
Hourglass figurines plagued dissenting cries; Farrell awoke; resplendent in his rags; his cap perched upon the tantamount book shelf; his jacket deplored, fragmented; he questioned his whereabouts; for certain, hereabouts he lay. The walls covered in newspaper clippings acting as insulation; caressed his haggard toes; five of which peculiarly moist; the other five reasonably dry. A man round fifty; bearded; grey, inexorably prude, cowered before him; rummaging through the cupboard that stood mere inches from the bed on which he had slept.
The man produced a letter; passing it forcibly unto the solemn palms of Farrell; crumpled and feckless; Farrell read aloud:
Solitary ambiguity
Acquiesce atonal souls;
Surmount the transcendental arch
Of passive farrowed prose;
For verbal discourse;
Rectified, modernised; deposed;
Has ne’er sanctified our hearts;
Our transcendental souls.
“Poetry? I have no time for poetry! There are questions to be asked! Where am I my friend! And why did you hand me this piece of convoluted nonsense? Honestly; I doubt that my mind is privy to the powers of metered phrase, at least at this instance!”
“Be grateful at least, for all is well; I found you outside; they say you were removed from a local tavern; however, I’m unsure as to where exactly. Nevertheless; I took you in; I’ve ne’er been one to pass on a self effacing act, so I made good of it.”
“Thank you; for that answer alone I am grateful; so who are you exactly?”
Farrell gazed artistically, craving prefixed lepers; expecting a chaste reply; papers peeled; articulate artifices soon played a delightful role; tension released; venison supplied.
“The name’s Delaney; I’m a scribe by trade, alas a quickened one; trivial though passably quick witted. Some say humourless, others a wonder; many contrary.”
“So it was you who wrote that?”
“Nay; it was my cousin; a man whose verse lives on borrowed time; it’s needlessly complex.”
“Your cousin wasn’t by any chance Arthur Delaney; was he?”
“No; it was Stephen; I can’t say that I know an Arthur. Anyhow you’re on the Southside; down from O’Connell Street; reckoning a wager are we?”
“Cheers; but I doubt I’ll be staying here much longer.”
Empathetically gesturing westward.
“Suit yourself; I’ve work to do; though leave the door open, I welcome a draught!”
Trust the maker; creator of life; cranial cavities reposed, usurp indignation; practice spontaneity; the Eucharistic heather; the sanctimonious musings of mathematical expositions. Turn the handle; pick the lock; tool the teeth; salt the pepper. Farrell poised and reticent; removed himself from under the silken sheets; unaware of his fallacious abode; fortunately torn; neither resurrected nor denied.
Bastards.
