SEAN REDDAN3, by Sean Reddandecade girlher sunglasses were cape town styleresting on her foreheadnot an easy way to stare into the lightbut easy to see,easy on the eyesun chaser dressed in 70's denimbangles and a surfer tatwas a decade girla lover in all seasonsas the shore rises to greetslipping, sliding, sea sand feetchildren of the revolutioncame out of the beat boxand that took us backbut we swore never to returnto littlehood, destitutegirl next door was a princessand we danced, we prayedbut neither of ushad reached divinity yetand the pictures in our locketswere the gods around our necksheave and sighand your adolescent breastsand we pillaged your brother's stashhis herbs and albums and other trashand smoked matches when desperatesucked in the sulphur at the strikeit was a wonder we didn't diejust got drunk and got highlife and at a blink, the night and babe i haven'tseen you for such a long timeand babe remember how we criedand held hands and laughedin our desert town hideawayso gone, it takes me back yearsbut girl you haven't changedstill a tomboy, how we foughtbut you gave me your jackie magspride of place amongst stolen memoriesand i read about the jam, generation xand the pistols tooand i recall you said they were cutebut i had my eyes on bowie on your walllips on teenage kisses, blownbut too close to look and comfortand ears on the impending stormsin your floyd and tull albums, yeahnever a tear, never to cryi'll see you in years to come again, girldecade girland we'll talk about another timeanother placeand we'll know, we touchand we know, we'll remainher sunglasses were cape town stylelowered nowreflecting water and memorynot an easy way to stare into the soulnever to be alonebut a silhouette, as we walk away,walk awayisolationfebruary (for stacy anderson welch)i give you these wordsthat is all i can doyoure invincibleyou never happenedthose things to youyoull still fly,you knowyou cant be defeated by routine wheelsof circumstancethey dont turnand twist anymoreeven though they may on the wings of a mareremind you of onceit is through a hazeof daybreakthat positive thingsradiateand thenthe pincushion of painsubsides and deflatesalthough it cries your nameoftenyour hands beat it awayyour arms hold on tightly to breathyour heart screamsintegritybrillianceyour temple is strengthenedthrough battle hardenedtangibledesirefor the nowand strongpowerlust for lifewhich isalwayslike the rainand air,alivelike bodiesis it the bones at the side of the roadthe silent and ageing stonesthat stop you from stoppingthat hold your stare as you hurry pastis it the knowing that once theyheld a man erect in a war torn worldis it the knowledge that youcould be staring into the futurethe way you read about the pastand how it often becomes darkand cold overnightwhen the candles are leftin neat rows and stacks like bodiesin a morgue of compassionand nobody moves or speaksjust to stay warm in fearcomforted by doing nothing wrongcomforted by doing nothing at alllike a knifei pick upthe penheavylike leadi circle the knuckleson my right handin blacki havea redbut i usedit all upon my left wristlike a knifemere inkyet the lines remaini change handsand with my righti cross out all flesh scarsleaving only trembling angry intense whitescarred, hurt, tears welling upblue veins that don't runmetaphoricallybut literallyto the heart,with my fisti hit the walli might break a bone or twobut i write withmy left hand, right?and i spill bloodpoetessyour anguishedcountenancerises from themakeshift pagesand remembersthrough my eyesthe stanzai am ona funeral songa hymn to lost love and daysverse of timetwinea stay without endunrhymedincompleteyour arms of times pastreach overand covermy tearsmy fading eyesnodand acknowledgecomfortof a sortlooking backwardsi realise that if the blade which penetrates your writers wristsdoesnt offer bloodit must mean that you are immortaland that your words still gushthrough chapters waitingto be bornand then could you let me into your sad confessions as a living poetesscould you turn wine into water if i was dying of thirstand pierced byvestiges of historyunclaimedby scribesreachingin the virginalnowwhen you get down on your kneesto praise the godsof eternitycelebratedpoetsvictors of the fountain pensipping from their inkwould you still act like a ladyand if you didmy friendwould you still beunknown? Mother and Sonwirelessyou move frequencyto frequencysatellite to satellitebar to twisttwist to turnturn to jiveshimmy to technoballads left outlike an unobserved star childhopeful to find playing in your earsan earth melodya simple love songbut even the static comingfrom the impersonal speakersbetween breaks between beatsis out of tunewirelessbreathless from inactionbut sore heelsyou scan the chairsfor a non-pairand pick up an empty seatout of the groove and shy nowa timid warrior on the dance floorof lonelinessa lifetime of nightsspent in routineyou look down you look awayafraid of anybody breaking your heartwith an unfamiliar toucha look of mistaken identityand then walkingsoon to be rejoinedby a set of fixated limbsback into the distant musicdistorted inviting so warmdisregarding the slow kiss movesthe laughterthe expressionsso warmplaying on another planetyou only visit as oneyou finally get up to leave,there's a radiowhispering your nameand a pair of slippers at home Second reflectionsean reddan is a self-taught visual artist, writer, photographer and spoken word artist. from south africa originally he now lives in ireland, where he has been for the past ten years.sean paints mostly with acrylics, but also does collage and uses other methods including watercolours and recently oil paints in his artwork.his paintings have been called energetic, bold, colourful and spiritual. this is also relected in his writing which ranges from social observation to personal reflection.currently sean is writing his second novel and looking for a publisher for his first. he is also hoping to publish a few collections of his poetry.www.facebook.com/seanreddanartistwww.myspace.com/seanreddanartist