What is a world without prose? without content being delivered 24/7 to the ever diminishing grey matter. Facts that can and are regularly twisted to suit the narrtive, words can be used as a forgiving nod to the elders of the forgotten world. A time in a place in the world where spiritually was more than pop culture buzz word. Being Irish wasn’t anything I had a hand in fact this was for me unknown to where or what I was until many years later. So what are we? Are we but a figment of existence, perhaps we are but like ants inside a bottle that that is plugged in to the main frame of the fabric of the ether.
Fucked if I know our I ever thought I knew. I can safely say I don’t know what the hell the point to life is, to blindly follow the books of the old testament, to listen to the wisdom handed down though the ages seems logically but what happens when the information is outdated, debunked, or just dam right silly? in the end what has any of this got to do with poetry? Probably nothing, poetry like good manners are subjective, like tolerance for pain you will endure only what is required here. As always this is work in progress. these initial writings are of along long time and bring you on a journey in the wonderings of my being.
« The way in which it could be…
Always someone else’s fault when shit don’t work out, right?
September 17, 2011 by Dr Albertoxie Rate This
The Start by Alan joyce In the beginning, Wind it swept, harassing clouds. Rain it fell, on to the ground. Grasses green they grew. Life, lived animals too. Wind whistled, the sun shined through. Water washed, waves of blue. Earth of brown, sea a cyan shade. Rainbows wide, summers breeze, Colours of all man kind. Crazy time, inner earth spins. Molten bubbles erupting. Ice melting, Rocks grind. Lava spurts from deep inside. Earth Heaves and settles slow. Magnetic forces from below. Compression, heat, chemicals, shiny specs are born. Dormant lay tormented souls not yet formed. History has begun a story will be told. Evolution and slowly watch the cogs turn.
Incontrovertible by Alan joyce October 28, 2009 by Dr Albertoxie Incontrovertible It’s been here for so, so, very long. It’s as plain as the writing on the page. It’s been starring you in the face. It’s nothing to be feared. Its in the past and its quiet. It doesn’t need a cover. It doesn’t need to hide. It is honesty profound. It’s enemy is darkness. It’s enemy is lies. It’s wrapped up in abundance Yet its rare its spoken wise Fear has it hidden. Corruption hides its well. It eventually is unearthed. The Truth we know it well. The End
-Waiting- by Alan Joyce
We all wait at times,
time but waits for no man.
The seed that was planted may eventually grow.
The train that arrives perpetually slow.
A first kiss that never seems to come.
We all wait at times.
I wait for myself to arrive.
Waiting on inline, it’s the waiting on that passes time.
Enveloped & antagonistic like aged wine.
Always waiting, I hate to wait, to wait in line.
I hate this anger that is mine,
its alway waiting at my door.
Waiting like a cheap whore.
No patience has me angry,
no paitience to sit still.
I hate to wait & to be ill.
This pain that never leaves my side,
the anger monster in clear sight.
Oh how I wait & hate to wait.
To be late is worse still & cross I am.
We wait to be born our unborn wait.
Mothers pregnant 9 months great.
I wait to die, to be as one.
I wait to see the great devine.
I wait though, still in line..
I’m always fucking waiting.
I wait to collect my welfare cheque,
I wait for medical help before I quit.
Call & wait for pickup.
The pizza man is the door again.
This time they enjoy the wait.
Anticipation salutations & salvation.
Did he bring the coke?
The high before the hit we wait,
alone in empty sheds we bake.
High like moon beams in a cake.
We wait further, quietly for death’s knock.
This morbid tale I write.
I wait this time now still, in mindset weak.
Why can’t we speed along the clouds?,
when others wait in seas of smitten.
My kitten waits to be a cat.
My cat waits to be a tree.
I wait, just for me.
We always fucking wait, I hate the wait.
A chase is good but wait, theres more.
I can’t take this fucking mess no more.
We all should just be as we are.
For who else can we be I say?,
some pray but hey why bother in the end?
It’s always going to get you after all.
More so then time, as time it doesn’t wait.
It ticks on in time magnificent & perpetual.
Everlasting waitless state some call it faith.
I don’t know why we cry, perhaps its all the sadness.
Perhaps its just the time to let it all come free.
I think I want to end my life today to say good bye in tears.
To release the anguish & the pain thats built up causing fear.
A rational fear to live & wait, to wait your turn to die,
my numbers always at the end. I sit & wait some more.
Help is never far but living is a disease & death sets you free.
Tune in tune out take a whole lot of wait & then some more.
They say that it heals, time they say, a lot they are but pawns in
a timeless, tireless, universe.
Oh how I now wait to die, to feel the pain subside,
to feel my body drift in to a comfortable happy place.
Im sorry. I will wait for you here.
my emotional roller coaster ride.
Good bye.
The way in which it could be…
June 27, 2011 by Dr Albertoxie Rate This
I sure write to remember, & sure write to forget,
some sadness is avoidable & hasn’t left head yet.
Body is twisted turmoil has hold,
passing thoughts linger some unprocessed to unfold.
Beacon of depression screaming for air,
voices ganging up inside, in need of special care.
Medicine excites medicine titillates,
fast paced race begins & boom shut down,
it all begins again.
Slowly are the voices muffled as amused stoned children play.
Upsurge, uprisen, the drummer boy taps a familiar tone upon my brow.
Why am I in pain when all around is colours of the rainbow,
I float off on a cloud of mario & Jesus, where is my golden coins?
I call but not but one answers, my Christ is that you Darwin?
I learn English from the book & speak & walk upright.
Evolved have I, not from egg, not from seed, not from harvest or a feed but from Jew.
Like you travel from your head & visit lands of time & wait to be opened like a ship wrecked bottle awaits it’s contents to be read.
I have found peace in a tablet, I have found answers in places most wont go. I can see vividly when all around see black.
I is aware not am, but whom are you with thoughts so impure.
Judge on with dissalussion, for a single mind is a beyond convention.
contacless payment, installation, recycled tecnology, nothing beats
the reinivention of one self.
.
« Trick Er Treat – By Alan JoyceThe way in which it could be… »
The day an eye went away
May 14, 2010 by Dr Albertoxie 1 Votes
The day an eye went away – Alan Joyce
So you see and so it was the way it’s ment to be.
The truth was plain and juxtaposed,
Same old story.
Same old show.
Eye was aching, pain was breaking,
veins dillated, pulils strained.
Red rolling, dried eyed goo.
Eyelash lashed on pools of blue.
Retina enlighted from cornea exposure,
post traumatic syndrom on pupils blue.
Ciliary muscle twitching now, snow falls
on empty ground. Light it burns from mother sun.
Exposed vessels become one.
One love, one eye.
One for the show, blurred vision isnt fun.
Drops on, drops off, drops in,drops out.
Passing colours now are one.
One love, one eye.
Chart stood still.
Lone characters danced and played like children in a orphanage at christmas.
Like a priest with an alter boy.
Like Jackson with bubbles.
Like puberty in a teenager.
Like a bird on wire.
Like cat with a mouse.
Reading focused correct and true.
20 vision was all to do. Work cut out to see it so.
The facts were simply crystal clear.
FEEDBACK from weekdaypoet
Really like this. It’s different—got some whimsy as well as some vernacular in it, my favorite combination. I admit that even after some readthrough and thinking I don’t entirely understand what’s going on at the literal level (at first I was thinking that the title was just a stoic way of saying that the eye was being surgically removed, now I’m guessing that it’s just failing and being fixed?) but I do appreciate the progression from plain/clear/matter-of-fact to blurred to fantastical and back to plain/clear/matter-of-fact. I like that contrast, rather want to copy it in fact…
Have to say, one line I really hate every time I come across it is “post traumatic syndrom on pupils blue.” I don’t like the PTS, because it doesn’t seem distinct enough from the matter at hand to be a good analogy nor close enough to be a plain description. And I dislike the “pupils blue” even more. It sounds stilted, like it’s trying to be pretentious and failed. Also sounds like you’re trying to force a rhyme with “goo,” which I’m not sure you are trying to do, but that’s how it comes across.
But, I’m only criticizing that line so harshly because I think it was the only bad one in a good poem. Thanks for the read.
MY RETORT:
Albertoxie
Man you can write for Ireland with that bad ass review 🙂 . with lashings of lashings of dictionary looks up for my little head to fully inderstand the depth of the post.. The whole methphor is there it lays between the sheets. the eye being the window of mind the gateway to the soul and door that lets in the light if we choose. we take in so much information and disregard millions of it just to survive.
I find subject matter in all sorts. A trip to eye docotor after getting some fiberglass in my eye and a few years later this is part of the result. sometimes times heals sometimes not. PST hit a nerve with you. I understand your point very well, as we canter through lifes adventure shit happens we have no control off. path can seem clear and all of a sudden BAM your out of control lifes thrown you a wobbly. Eyes being the way it comes to is its no wonder they sometimes require rest. PST refares not so much directly to whats happening more to what has happend. Pupils like my own are blue, nothing more to it, reading back over this there is one or two lines i could ommit or change and yet for all this there is parts to tease parts to confuse and parts to smile, covers a multitude. I value your comments so thank you for taking the time to write that review.
Thank You,
Alan
FEEDBACK from weekdaypoet
>with lashings of lashings of dictionary looks up for my little head to fully inderstand the depth of the post.
Right back atcha mate. It took me a while to get through your response too. Well worth it though, to be able to re-read with your explanation in mind. You’ve got me thinking about “disregarding millions of info just to survive” now, seems like there could be a poem in that. The sheer waste of it.
You took the time to write and entertain, I’m happy to take the time to review. 😉
Cheers,
Jobey
MY RETORT:
albertoxie
ah thanks, this blog was once a page of bebo.com when bebo was but a infant. When there was no photos there were no mp3 music addons and video options. Bebo was once just a simple blog place. I used to write tales, tales from life as most.
Them days have long since faded, the tinterweb is riddled like a five dollar hoe and garden variety i mean not the street corner ones. I have explinations for all my creations some are more interesting than others. The smaller of the poems normally produce the deeper explaination. Justification of what it is.
Sorry its taken long time to reply. Im working on design and implimentation of a internet radio station It’s to be called Involved FM. a couple more weeks and I will be ready to set it free to the world.
Hey, I’ve already done one online poet rec on my blog (http://weekdaypoet.wordpress.com/2010/06/22/jon-sanders%E2%80%99s-top-50/) and yours is the blog I’d most like to do next.
Can you give me the all-clear to write up a review, with links and all that?
And if yes, let me know if there’s anything you particularly want to pay attention to when I write my rec. I can send you a rough draft in a day or so if you like.
– Jobey
- on July 4, 2010 at 10:21 am | Reply
albertoxieI’d like that, thank you. I look forward to the straight up no nonsense honest truth. Cheers. Al
- REC: Alan Joyce’s Poetic Excuse « One Day One Poem[…] on (but stop stealing my motto).” You’ll notice that on the very first page he ranges from the philosophical and detached to the personal and rollicking to the gritty to the grittier—to the absolutely delightful kids’ […]
- on July 15, 2010 at 6:15 pm | Reply
weekdaypoetPhew. That was tougher than I thought. But it’s up today, let me know if there are any issues.