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David Flynn (email)


A Silk Lines Box

Special events like birthdays and holidays.

Merry Christmas, and here's another year

to celebrate age and ignorance.

Fifty-two weeks.

A garbage-can clock - recycling time.

Out with the old

for collection day.


Days into weeks,

weeks into months.

The precious things are saved

in a hand-made wooden box.

Lined in crumpled, purple silk,

like an upmarket coffin.

A box with a secret.


A grey plastic monument

with a vinyl  house number on the front,

and the occasional treasure inside

that I forced myself to part with.

Dragged through the gate

and left in the rain,

on the smooth tarmac pavement.



Time Passes Slowly

Time passes slowly when strength to live is gone.

Perspective gleams clearly to trick fading light.

A clarity of sight, with death's blind vision

discerning clarity from uncertain shadow.


Soon, very soon a soothing darkness

suffocates in a pall of insane light.

Yet from this restful blackness

comes a long forgotten memory


of an age when life was precious.

No.  It must be a deception of the dying light

in futile struggle against the end of life.

The averting of eye from death's dark gaze.


 Here's to life and all its worthless glory

and here's a call to circling death.

A terminal halt to dragging years of pain.

Time passes quickly when the hour to die draws near.




The Science of Abstraction

Reality is a perceived abstraction,

shifting with time

and mood.


Reality is a diva soprano,

singing out of tune,

deliberately, spitefully.


Reality is a prime number,

Divisible by chaos

and ambiguity.


Reality is dreaming

about being awake,

in a nightmare.


Reality is a dangerous liar.

It shapes your thoughts,

it makes you anxious.


Reality screams in fury

as you close your eyes in sleep,

to be alone.


Reality holds you in your place.

It guides the wings of dreams,

always downward, never skyward,

never to rise and fly away.



Terminal Piece

Slipping, sliding, creeping under consciousness.

Yet I see you, working

so busy.


The world looks small from far away,

cars collide.

Imagination is stretched to avoid reality.


Suseris of tyres,

amorphous towers.

A land shrouded in fog.


A light on the landscape,

home, a beacon.

A radiance in darkness.


Procedures, attention to detail.

The accusers dissemble.

Morality is beyond them.


Hostility, in a cheerless place.

A grim celebration

of a lifetime's work.


In the margin,

a hectic note.

"I'd rather be me, than you."