Patrick M.

 Neat Scotch is a Paved Highway.

A sober silhouette masks the foot steps of a drunken man.

Bourbon  on the rocks makes for one hell of a rough climb.

On the journey to the top he passes go into a death zone

displaying fatalities and abandon pubs.

Oxygen to his blood stream decreases as courage and

blood-alcohol levels increase rendering him helpless to radio silence

and the catastrophic last calls of a faded barkeep.

His hand is nearly frostbitten now as he lays

his lowball to rest comfortably on a safe coaster.

Distilled and confused now his head drifts like he snow.

What seemed to be a summit has all but failed to a rock bottom conclusion.

One more inebriated night, one more failed journey to the top.

~Patrick M.

The Crown vs. The Cross

We’ve nearly drown a million times in our egocentric bathtubs,

But in the end we come clean, humble again, ready to fight.

No longer can justice be carried on the shoulders of weak people and diplomacy,

The way of the gun knows a more common interest in our hearts.

Now a hunger strike, where lives are laid down as proof.

Proof of the strength of our political convictions.

A constable killed by a car-bomb makes a martyr,

And a freedom fighter becomes the Catholic monster that put him to his cross.

The prisons will be flooded with an arsenal of perseverance to gut and hallo out

the core of British imperialism and it’s ‘innocent’ acts of  bigotry.

“Sinn Féin” is on the lips and in the hearts of sovereign women and children.

 We tread water a while longer in hopes to purify our blood lust,

But come to terms with our necessary evils.

The most confusing dogma is sacrifice for preservation,

Or slaughter as a means to protect.

We must wage war in order to sustain peace.

 The “Orange” ideology is tongue in cheek

And to turn the other check, is to remove your Kevlar.

The smallest display of decadence will influence change.

We may have disarmed for a time, but we will never disband.

~Patrick M.

Skipping Monday’s Stones & Dragging the Lake

Monday morning again, wistfulness for a cigarette increases.

Stop it man, get a hold of yourself. Not another broken pact to you.

Reminiscent thoughts of the weekend shake the foundation of my office.

Productivity decreases as escapism takes over. I’ll need coffee soon. Drift.

Draft, beer, friends, and stupid endeavors. A beautiful blonde.

My pandering to new faces as Lust’s Conquistador makes me ill.

The bottle on the night stand with a single fluid ounce left describes my soul.

It’s also telling of my devotion to anything in this world.

The nostalgia for red hair and  purple bed sheets still holds me captive.

I’ve grown impatient with me, and so I blame this city.

I cannot be released on my own recognizance just yet. I’m waiting.

Benchmarking who I am through someone else, or a lack of someone.

An alter ego of a movie star, a rock star, a dark star, burned out at 23.

I climb several branches. I’m safe now. I can see you, but you can’t see me.

Lucidly looking down upon my office I can see myself. It’s almost time to go home.

Reluctantly I lock the door and turn out the lights. I don’t want to go home.

Where is home? Aside from stupid clichés like “Home is where you make it.”

Press on guy. Maintain your appearance. Smile at the nice people.

Practice saying, “I’m good. How are you today?” Programmed Responses.

Don’t wear you heart on your sleeve.

Hide it under your sleeve next to that damn nicotine patch. Start the car.

Chew some gum. Take a deep breath, and do it all over again tomorrow.

~Patrick M.

The Courier Still Beats 

Timing is everything when the clock has run out. And the ticking.

Tracking traces of nitrate, and defusing the ominous conversations.

Cutting the red wire before I routinely pack up my belongings once again.

Cutting off my loses to spite my heart. Vacant looks accompany vindictive speech.

Grinding my teeth to rhythms of your heels up the stairwell. A maddening crescendo.

It was the fear of myself that aspired civil perspectives in a time of war. White flag.

A P.O.W. paying premium rent. Self-captive, still captivate by bourbon-on-the-rocks.

Thoughts of perennial affection help to preserver. Flowers are the temporary bandage.

A love-a-fair in love and war. A definitive line. Crossed and double-crossed.

Verbal shrapnel is deflected by a slamming door. Locked tightly in your foxhole.

Deliver me. Slide the key under the door. The shackles fall and screws loosen.

Fleeing my servant bondage. Reincarnate. Stockholm is an awful syndrome.

My liberation is an iron taste in the back of my throat. Missing insanity already.

Treason against myself, encompassing my heart until I know no magnetic north.

Everything changes suddenly. Delusions of our grandeur and rose colored glasses.

Locked doors become beautiful red locks of hair. Fair skin’s equilibriums.

A ship without storm. A bitter stagnant sail. All the wind is gone.

And frankly my dear, I still give a damn.

~Patrick M.