A Stage Is Set
I’ll walk, the Patrick Square Jazz Club finds me, her eyes hide me behind a shadowed sidelined sea. Autmaticity, thematically, erratically, she’ll find me. Stirring, whirringly, worrylingly run-down solemnly patiently pays me a tolerance never seen or heard, third on my list of needless words, birds flying, dying by cars, faster had hardly needed beaded, heed me, see me, free me Genevieve, believe me, am I never ever to love again, and if not when, how long will it take to forsake myself for another lover, and then another. Don’t brother, brother me, never will I ever see the fantasy hidden from me, beneath my nose, roses grow under trees, please, will it never be my ecstasy in another dream, it seems I’ll die an old fool, drooled and spooled by a nurse with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon except hold my bollocks in her hand, she stands commanding the room, as someone else spoons some compromised shite for me to bite down into the groundless pit where it could be shit out another time. There is a fine line between sanity and profanity, the lines are crossed because we have not the tidings finding ourselves bewared and scared of each other, as lovers kill their hearts, torn apart by greed, needed to feed their fatter, blassé egoes, heroes never seem to stage a play of fools for them to fall and cry, behind every guy is a chance to cry out for love and peace, released from silverware, where they share these moments belined a line of high fives and sausage fries. It’s all lies, every single one, a ton of bricks pricked from those guitar licks and guitar stands manned in hand from sin. And it begins the rock n roll noise, poised and gauged, gazed and delayed in a rock n roll furore, fever and spice rocks out the night, shite, this is shite, the night sky blackens, we thicken our teeth, belief has struck us down a chord, we are bored of rock n roll pronographic chants, entranced in the front of the queue, who knew the blues were so taboo, tattooed sailors mound the lines, fine they face their stage left drives the swan glares, she stares at me, we kiss encircled stands a quieter man who understands that rock n roll is all fableau, bugé in size and sign, alined in itself is another three chord dime, riff intact, whip wham whack, the crowd scream to the diadactic lick, and pick themselves up to the click of a drum, dum did i di dum dum, are we one or not at all? Can we call ourselves heroes- why have we scalded ourselves? Change – not chains, painting green the roof, we choose to allow this boudouir to unleash a sense of unity- behind calls of profanity, insanity beckons as we recommend our sizes, and analyse the quaint serenity of humanity. There is much at stake from a rock n roll band, here, brother and man, there is a chance to recouperate the fallen sign- he plays his guitar one last time to an encore of a thousand roars, tonight I’m hoarse, tomorrow, I’ll speak no more, but in drunkenness I walk in style, minding out what’s been an emotional trial of error and pain, we remain inside a rock n roll stage, where no one can age, refined by jazz and chords, pain no more inside my head, free and maybe, I might already be dead, but in this light and stage come through another, lovers, sisters, cousins, mothers- where it ends, I do not know. The stage clears- now its time to go.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man, who has written from Cork, Madrid and Prague. Currently residing in Glasgow, Lyng continues to refine his work. Aided with the ability to write in English and Gaeilge, examples of his work have been published in Vada Magazine, From The LightHouse, An Gael-IrisLeabhar Idirnaisiúnta and his eponymous wordpress account.