talking to ones self

feel like going into a deep
where the fight does not matter.
jail is a single light bulb
of brilliance at
at a desk with paper
but hell
is the jailer
and there are no
i’ll go deeper then
farther into the hole
into the ground
where classical music
truly is torture
and poetry does not feed
on rich words but
there is no such thing as death
only the sting of
the eternal
if God says no
of earthly sins.
so deeper
deeper still
dig and keep scrounging
dig to the oil buried
by nazis
hidden better than
art in their salt mines-
dig and hit
pay dirt
and with index
dip in and start to scribble on the
– scribble words which do not matter
scribble warnings which are too
anyone caught down here with me
are in the same
and together
we’ll laugh and hear our
voices echo
down the hall
out into the world
where no one listens
and ask for a
match –
strike it on the wall and in the explosion
rumbling back up through the
prepare to laugh
knowing at the surface
our words
will be found in a cloud above the trees
peeling themselves
as we are sent straight up
to heaven
hoping God will
his mind.


About Crazy Irishman

Touted as a working man's poet, Martin Durkin has been writing professionally for the last 12 years. He has appeared in over twenty anthologies across North America, including, "And left a place to stand on", a collection of poems and essays about the late great Al Purdy. Durkin has also published two collections of poetry, "Hypnotic Childhood", and "The Sound of Quish". Over the past 4 years, Durkin has been on hiatus for the most part but has recently come back to the poetry scene creating a poetry site called, where in the past year he has written over 100 poems and created a cross over page on where he gives a story behind each of the pieces written. View all posts by Crazy Irishman

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