Have Fun Storming

Unjust laws were made to be railed against
Voices were meant to be heard by any means at hand
Castles were made for storming
Towers were meant to be toppled
They were built in case
we learned how to make
educated modern fire
gotta light mate?

I Dreamed I Saw Phil Ochs

To Whom it May Concern 176

Behan sipped his drink that Hemingway bought because we were all skint and twisted as a car wreck then he asked,” Why are you still even here?”. I really had no answer so I smirked ,”Because Ernie is still here and he keeps buying the bottles.”So he laugh then the smile on his face turned to a scowl, “You don’t belong here there’s work to be done.” Mr. Behan had the knack as the Irish do to say something without saying it.It’s the reason Fitzgerald already pissed off the conversation to sulk in the snug away from our lot. I did my best not to answer in my usual manner that I usually give Brendan.I really had no answer so snark and whiskey it was,”You lot drove me here and just like the other lot it’s always the stay stay stay we’ve work to do and your the one we picked so accept it.” Hemingway threw the empty bottle and the fire ,ordered another and sternly almost yelling,”He is here for the same reasons why they couldn’t kill me,I go when I want to go.”The silence could cut holy stained glass and it explained everything in one brief moment. I eyeballed the glass and drink remembering when I first met moaning old Yeats and Behan. Brendan handed me a drink and we spoke of poetry taking down all walls and tyrants if placed correctly.We spoke of context and love.The whiskey and Guinness flowed to the point of realizing myself that in fact these were the stories.The world was an open canvas for drinking,fucking,and,fighting.The poetry in motion topples barricades ,words can crack stone and conscience.The world is the poetry and the worded art of freedom.Behan in the most gentle way that he could said,”Shut the fuck up,one battle at a time and you have to find it for yourself”

Born Married

Love found me early as child well before I knew what lost causes were
long before I understood what an invisible war was for  
Pierce was a saint before I knew any latin or prayer
taught in twilight of the wrongs or rights of the world
the voiceless were my allies no matter their color or street they lived on
Christy and Phil sang to me of romantic struggle,history and moral
Joe and D sung the poetry of what could be
my heroes never could save the world nor was it the aim  
they only drew maps to follow
of what could be possible