January 10, 2013 by John Buckley
The cure, or a cure, for the next two hours in a self-contained,
Rented Opel Astra, in which my mind will be framed.
Framed as in set, released or bet.
But there were no tunes, just glooms.
Sports review of the year, flickering through left ear to right
Something about the big Katie fight.
I was sparring off some heavyweight
To reclaim the memories of that blissful 31st of December date.
Threw her into reverse, in to the suburban pseudo D4 drive
I had, as the ad lad said, arrived alive.
But I sat there frozen, more so than the messers listening to Drake
While skating on a frozen Galway fake lake.
“Can’t get out”, “Won’t get out”
Back to the house, back to that start,
Learning to make my mothers apple tart, I haven’t the fucking heart.
Regressing as each bag is shouldered, t-shirt folded.
Sweats, chest and breath. But the kidneys are nolonger bet.
The perspiration, fueled by agitation,
Felt like some kind of cumulonimbus precipitation.
The wakin’ alarms sounding more like the break in.
Fuck, do I have to face this day, no option to sit, rot, decay?
High-resolution apples, making my eyes, pupils fail with disillusion.
Is it ADHD? Hyperactivity?
It’s not though. Relax, calm, see through it clearly.
Net doctor is about as useful as a third oxter,
When the lens’s veil contains pain and a pinch of the frail.
Who’d have thought your mood would be lifted in a dark place,
You with your flickering shadowy candle glow face.
Actually being mindful, just being there, inhaling the air,
Absorbing the stares, digesting a lull
Ensuring all the six senses are full. A present from the present
There’s never not light (as in dark, I’m not being that stark)
Sure your phone’s like a beacon, but someone’s not always seeking.
But tonight the shadowy familiar twitter avatars
Are flickering around like shiny notification stars.
Random synapses firing electric signals
Making the body fit with jiggles.
The appreciation my torso shows, to the artist versing his proses.
Thursday never even starts
And I’ve got a minute, apparently, before it all falls apart.
Tone, followed by a hope shown on the screen of my obnoxious phone.
“Mind yourself now, you’re doing great work” reads the tweet with a shirk.
While giving myself a well needed irk.
AutoCorrect, the one that detects the smallest of defects, spells mines.
I may mind the mines, there may be some of them within my mind.
Wednesday, 11.59 and a bit pm
Restless rest averted by a love or maybe two, with which once I flirted.
With seconds to go, until The Cure get proved right,
In comes a text from a beoir and proves that they’re full of shite.
She’s my bantamweight champion (My Katie Taylor),
She thinks life (the opposition) has her fucked but I know she’ll nail her.
Rarely anymore into the darkness will she let herself be sucked.
And while I’m yawning, sleep drawing. I’m in her corner,
She in mine, bucket ready, moving on from being a mourner.