Abound, we walked to the empty entrails of a park once adorned by Irishmen in Tipperary. Pre-dissipated hope encompassed an ephemeral family nostalgia in a brewery made for one lady’s eclectic, aged discourse. The free cup of tea was fine, never overstepping our welcome we knew that the comely ambiance fed a fish buried beneath all our sphincters.
Deluged trouble awaited in the form of a bloody mary who could hardly contain her contempt at another ecclesiastical visit to the dregs. Be still, for this point rings true to the eternal and may never leave you. She that proves her worth by the posie, should fall ill and stagnant amongst the air of chance that owes itself to nothing but the efficiency of joy.
Go fast yee bhoys, some whom I knew in youth, and would make a son see his father still had the hunger of the former. You youthful and ambitious thoughts stay eternal. Never will the coitous of the nefarious bore see your gaze. A lady ran on at the close, never withholding the passion. We shall make the telly according to her wisdom.
Here lies us of white heart. For once we had that pleasure on Thurles, a year never worth mentioning, that all keep in their calendar.
It’s back again. Hell, or something towards the altruistic crevice of non-belief hurls your bollocks up to the point where you thought kicking women made sense.
I’ve had a fairy tale in mind. Do you remember the time you sat across from a pubescent invalid? With the banality of a nubile heathen spread across your finger tips and all the disorientated vision of a harlot’s provocative tales upon your head.
Fantastic, and never ephemeral when you realise the damage.
It made more sense when you presumed to fake it. But the closer you got to a lifetime’s gaze, the more I wished I had never met you.