Michael Mulvihill

WRITERS HEAD ON A STICK

They used to shoot the messenger,

But this horde wanted gore,

A torture and a killing from the days of yore,

A piece was writ that had too much grit,

It told truth,

Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,

And thus, was vowed there shall be blood,

Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,

Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,

Knee capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,

When all was done, his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,

As this horde, this cult of death,

Raised their flag outside a mansion,

And placed the writers head on a stick,

A thick stick yes,

But none the less a stick,

The hurly burly was done,

What was achieved in this process?

 

 

The Full Truth

We had everything,

Now all we have is this planet that we steel and asset strip,

Inherited wrongs,

Breathing like a virus,

 

The modern law,

Justifying and rationalising the unethical,

Until the grip in its lecherous nature is growing like chicken weed on the arteries of your soul’s heart,

See the avarice roar,

See consumerism dwell in the midst of nothingness and meaninglessness,

 

Over exerting power,

And authority to,

Crime grows,

 

Mr. Mammon does not forbid a thing,

He does not forbid war,

As long as you can economically rationalize it.

He does not forbid exploitation,

Mr. Mammon is a pig,

He is proud,

He grunts when fully contented,

His enemies he regards as enemies to humanity,

Venial sins grow to mortal sins,

They create a chain reaction,

Adam and Eve

Or just ourselves.

 

 

Big Fictions-Schizophrenia

The time is now,

The story began months ago,

Now in,

Lacerated rational reasoning,

The I had been displaced over another I,

What a metamorphosis,

 

The skull is frightened by the eagle,

Space is cramped, and is divided,

Divided into miniscule pieces upon the façade of the body,

My ego is fragile, fragmented, foreclosed, split into pieces,

Reality seems to look like a red serpent and a deviant,

Distributed by further non-egos,

Ideas can be just lies and persecution,

Distributed by further non-entity, non-pieces of my ego,

A sterile wasteland,

Enjoin and con-join,

 

What is this exaltation?

 

Now even the sky scrapers look like ants,

Migrating my body into a folly of administered enjoyment,

It is said what the alternatives should be,

A boundary, a yielding,

An un-damaged force,

That does not want the various split thoughts to unite into one force,

To make a unitized subjective sense.

 

.

Bloodshed, War shed, Asset Stripped (Ethnically Cleansed Areas of The Former Yugoslavia)

We drove through towns ripped apart by war,

My soul dived into the darkest ground that I have ever found,

For what I see leaves nothing to admire,

I cast aside hell,

Only to see hell,

Tears from my eyes pour,

For what should be an eternity

But to spite this,

Tears merely are a gentle flow,

Only the crackle and hiss of fire,

I flee fury,

Driving away,

Bit by bit,

Becoming safer and safer,

As territory, I pass remains devoured in the past and present,

Dark trembling thoughts encounter these realities,

If only for the time being I am not a warrior and I lose nothing of my soul,

Thoughts in this enclave of war are none too happy,

I close chapters of the present and hope that I can be blinded through this time I live,

The day goes on and all I know is to live in the past,

Every time becomes a luxury where normality exists and is known,

I carry on.

Michael Mulvihill hails from Dublin, Ireland