Burn the Bankers — OUT!

A short distance from the foot path, across from the flats which do their best to wall in
the ordinary decent criminals and their mammies and their mammies’ mammies,
there stands an outside wall put together with everyday breeze blocks.
It is here on this wall that the thoughts of many have been expressed
as a succinct and uncompromising social policy.
Of such a statement it must be emphasised that a great debt is owed to the honesty
and directness which the sentiment is possessed of.
The spray painted message reads like a single line of wish fulfilment.
Was it you?
I wish it was me but I myself have just enough to lose, so that now instead of living
angry and free, my hand claims poet’s blood as something to protect, something valuable.
I have no reputation and perhaps this poet is only just honest enough to die quietly and not be disturbed.
But a dream as you wake becomes an occupation in itself.
No, there is no money in it.
But for the money some would sell nightmares to the innocent, so at best the poet is not
the worst.
It goes: lips first then words, then secrets, then nothing left to say but the truth
we already know.
BURN THE BANKERS – OUT, let the blood be, feed lust.
Before I went to sleep last night, a vampire, one of the better ones out there, spoke
in a broken Eastern European accent and tried as he had another night, another warning,
to sign the names of each of us on a do-what-needs-to-be-done certificate.
It wasn’t official, simply a series of thoughts which made sense.
Primary to this concept poem is a dream which I doubt I can follow through.
If you will allow me, I would like to share it with you here.
The first thing to say is that it was before my sleep took hold.
I saw the sphere of gold which stands outside the front of the central bank, in the square which for years gave home to skate boarders kick flips and ollie twists.
It was this piece of run-of-the-mill corporate art which stole my imagination from me.
No longer could I see its hollow form as anything but a challenge.
It wasn’t simply a challenge, it was a sentence,
sheltered in its hood of concrete – the best I could think was to destroy this symbol,
to cut the sentence short with a full stop.
The worst best way for one nobody to do it was to pull a paint-filled balloon from his bag and fire it up into the face of this golden ball.
Splatt.
And that was that, but then I woke up in the morning in our one room and my hands were clean.
April Fool.
Then second, third, fourth and so on until someone of the many does what I don’t have
the stones to do.
This foolish youth is our only hope, as for me, I get older by the day, by the night, by the day by the night, by the day.
Dreaming.

The poet writes: Darren is a writer and artist whose expressions are sometimes more and other times less sensible. It is an emotional world, the sense is for him an afterthought, something which must be found as both yours as well as his, something common. It is lucky therefore that expression can be shared in so many places, but sadly never enough. Still it is good to know the job at hand, foot, finger tip. To date his work is to be mostly found in a google search/Kilkenny Writers Group…. And he thanks you!