Shane O'Neill

Nothing is quite so clear

No, more like nothing is black and white,

Rather grievous shades of grey.


Shades – brown, navy, black and well, grey.

As for the others – I’d just feel too garish – 

Can colours transmit their soporific dye to the soul?

Or is inspiration simply made of brighter colours,

Of imaginative scissors skills for I seem to have lost the will.


In Neal’s yard those shoe gangs rule the manor,

Devoted adherents to the creed of divide and conquer.

That ox- blood- tan leather brogue….

My hanging skins aren’t really that accommodating.

All those ones needed was just a flatter soul….


Flee like one in the throes of a metaphysical anguish,

While greed smugly stalk your every step.


In a scene to grace the set of a moronic t.v. chat show:

‘It’s like, oh my God, I despise consumerism and stuff but…’

Intellect would not have saved Adam and Eve.

In religious confession style:

‘Father I know what I like and if I saw it, I’d grab it!’


But if predominant tastes remove temptation from the path,

Am not I still a consumer, a sadomasochistic slave to

The cranial drill of The Image Procedure?

Thus falling foul of Father’s favour, who decrees that

migraine patrols and nauseous infantry should launch 

immediate attack upon any sightings in restricted shopping space.


So that practicality and necessity are now the beacons on my path.

That is, until we meet those foggy shades of grey. 

E-mail Shane

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