Martin Patrick McCarthy

Am I too young to contemplate death?
With youthful hue and long of breath?
Death is something that is foreign to a child;
He lives his life reckless and wild.
...

Here we shall wait, you and I,
And settle our heads against a pillow as we lie
Waiting, waiting for love...
...

I see your eyes flicker in the candlelight;
I become intoxicated with their charms.
I feel myself melting away within your arms,
As we lie together in the restless night.
...

She walks alone on the moonlit beach
Her feet slide in the ever-yielding sand
(It is the only thing in her life that gives) .
The waves wait anxiously, calling her,
...

Today I set aside my rhyme,
I trade in my sabre for a club,
To iterate the wrods in my heart;
I feel dissonant today.
...

When I heard the news, I imagined you lying in bed
Troubled by the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
I imagined you looking at your legs, cursing
Their fickle use, while a stranger stands over you nursing.
...

In spite of my protest, a new day is born,
Sun chases moon; I am forlorn.
If the Sun were considerate, He would give me leave
So that I may have ample time to grieve.
...

Ay me! Why does Poesy wish me to draft;
To wilfully engage in this sullen craft?
Ill-begotten I am, dull is my pen
For it has no power to wound the hearts of men.
...

The Great Dictator made the Fatherland great
With a strong regimen of violence and hate.
Speer builds, Goebbels lies
And all around, the Jew dies.
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She keeps her heart locked up tight
Too many thieves in the night;
Many times the key was given, but each day
The thief opens the lock, takes the heart, and slithers away.
...

Proudly, vainly, prophetically, I imagined to see
A horrible rend between us that time could not mend.
The indignation of the Ages has settled upon me
That very day I was no longer your friend.
...

O, gentle night, rock me asleep,
Dry my eyes so I cannot weep.
I embrace thee, cold gentle night,
While I scribble poetry by candlelight.
...

Open your eyes to the ravings of a disordered mind,
Observe lunacy in its finest hour.
'I am but mad north-northwest.'
Random images flash across the canvas;
...