Gordon Ferris is a sixty-two old year Dublin writer living in Ballyshannon in Co Donegal for the past thirty-six years. He is a member of the Dublin Writers Forum and has had many poems and short stories published in A New Ulster, Hidden Channel and The Galway Review.
Drinking all night on the beach.
Clouds cover the mountains like a bed sheet on naked flesh. Singers swaying dancers swinging onlookers, sitting silently in awe pent up energy ready to explode the hesitant wave arm reluctantly rising. At night colours from our world depart to paint the canopy of the universe returning later watched over by the morning sun heralding birth of day our eyes slowly opening.
Feet shuffling from side to side Waiting, listening and watching Sign says it's due in one minute The sign has said that for the last five Two women dolled up to the nines Powdered faces reeking of cheap perfume Shivering, must be freezing “That Reiky is a load of old bollocks” “It helps me, so I don't give a bollocks.” Ad for a local politician, Vote Leo, yur only man. A penis drawn on his forehead A baby crying under shopping in a pram The mother lights another cigarette A drunk man looks at his watch And anxiously in the direction the bus will come.
I like being on my own, thinking freely letting the voices enter, their words leaving the mouth in random abandon coming together through the ear in unison, amazingly making sense. The never-ending cycle of subtle vitriol from egos with no beginning, middle, or end an endless circle of words rotating back to the start an endless spiral of sounds, circling and confusing, exploding and defusing. Overheating but still cooling. Round and round they go catching us in their glare, look of sincerity, as if they really care. Sitting uncomfortably Numb but overheating afraid to take the coat off don't want to be noticed Imagining all the others secretly watching from the corner of their eye passing judgement even when you look and notice they’re not looking you don't believe what you see they turn away now They think I'm nosy ‘they’re whispering now’ can't make out what they’re saying but I bet it's about me bet they’re texting their friends about the old man in the goatskin coat the goat, the old man killed, Skinned and cured himself