Sean Mahoney 102

I'm a new man when i grab the pen i become bigger then i've ever been putting words in orders many haven't seen as too many in london try live the american dream if only the solemnly cowards see the city sights go further than bright lights- to get away is like hauling a truck trying to buck west end trends send more friends but i say once again im a new man when i grab the pen bigger than before almost too big to fit through the door when you have a habit for stealing the show the supposed show stoppers don't wanna know 'no we're good thanks anyway' these plastic pretentious people will rue the day when i rule the day. say what's good what's been done if you say you're both then you're times up now run, I'm developing my very own enigma- the north london persona a life more over the top than a soap opera now

I'm a new man when i bleed from the pen recess what's been the best place to confess my sins there's never been any science to my expression i just tell you my mistakes and hope you get the lesson, less of a man more of a monster i think of the cheetah hauling a truck of friends stealing shows and bucking west end trends you know when the death toll gets to a hundred audiences will provide bigger wheels to roll with though it's still my mind still taking my time the only thing to me worth any value, but too much of my time goes to people that don't want any of mine, those same cool girls from school still impressed with the same old lines, show me yours and i'll show you a beautiful mind though it's hard to shine in a city covered in grime but music makes me better, and laughter pushes me to the stage never to be less than five minutes of brilliance and when my time comes millions will be in attendence so please pay attention before you're stuck with admittance I'm past my very own present so broke to the point i resent my very own self for my imaginary self has so much going for im but my body doesn't put the work in in the future i'll be working hard. going hard. and i've taken a few scars just to get to the point i can be brighter than all the stars
because there are now stars in london, look to the sky and tell me if you see one, it's never where you come from.

there are no stars in london, look to a night sky and tell me if you see one.
there are no stars in london, look at me and tell me if i can be one.

the young man is in constant evolution

so. this guy comes up to me ans is all like, oi you st

I'm, losing sight of what i thought i was.
too many lines have been written in the hope it will fill the hole
that's still reserved for the man i may one day become.

I'm losing sight of my goal,
either it's further away than i thought
or for years i've been taking part in the wrong sport,
losing my cool losing all but what i wanted to lose- the hole
finding out that what i thought would, still didn't make me whole
(committed to a potential heartbeat in frost- It's only cold)
so the focus is disfigured and now needs to be rearranged
as i take a  too-long look at how much time got stole,
to all my friends that I know i've lost, understand that i recognise the cost
I'm better than what you see, harder than what i used to be
but my history with that dream has taken it's toll
and when things get better and my schedule gets clearer
you'll come down and we'll laugh like it never happened,
as if my disfigured self didn't resemble a troll crossed with a lost soul that left a happier self go
running at a blistering speed towards a future unnecassary

walking home alone

The city Lights up
haunts are glowing
central london
left of the centre
down the corridor
so close
it just makes the dark darker)
physical closeness but loneliness)
but the doors open
shows about to begin
everyone looking at me
do i belong-

and i step on, the floorboards creek

now i move in toe but it feels too slow.

Colin Wilson's Protege

Mocked for the lack of education
but man,
you can't fault the dedication
Knocks out bad blood
and the guilt with his perspiration
to every other dude it's recreation
but to him it's the dream vacation
waits. cold sweat. train station in
december
street lights of ember illuminate a face
that doesn't want to remember
Between punches on pads
the same thought lingers:
can you live this life to september?
It makes the punches harder
and in buckets of sweat
you can let out a few tears
and if you always laugh
no one will know you sleep
with so many fears.
the arms are spaghetti
legs are jelly, gloves heavy
and it's always too early
The alarm rings at five thirty
and- don't think.

Run.
You where never the fastest one
but that never stopped you.
no matter what was in your path you kept on
if you weren't the best you at least got better
and always got back up when stepped on
even when taking the hurt for a life that wasn't yours
gliding hooks colliding with sliding jaws
"always keep your knees bent Sean
it's said tall boxers are susceptible to uppercuts
but not if you forever duck. See,
you don't have to have a weakness"

Trained on the weekends.
stretch in the train station in march
ashamed he has to make his legs arch
to make his fingers and toes touch
bed-ridden no-sleep just lays, mornings-
face full in a bowl of cereal
hearing voices he doesn't want to hear at all
faster punches thrown on kite hill
but now the school work is piling up
he looks at questions and loses his heart
hardly hard, what's there to hit?
he barely believes it, but, it's enough.

This wasn't the plan. There never was one i suppose
We make the most of what we've got, and given
but as the fights come and he brings in the wins
he still asks the question: Can you live this life to september?
and of course his birthday comes and he's still delivering hits
and only colin wilson notices it, my quickness has slipped
my focus has dipped, not that much, but, it's enough
"how you Sean, with yourself?"

zip-zap-boing. He hears it every morning
BTEC performing arts, flopped his gcses so he's wound up acting
to his classmates he acts like it's boring, like he'd rather be boxing
he can't admit it, it's so fucking, billy elliot, then the mind drifts
in the most dangerous of all places, the four cornered ring.
The concussion that then came kept him out the gym for a week
and with his nights now free. He couldn't avoid it anymore.
He had to think. it was him and his thoughts and he fought
harder than he did in his favourite sport.
as many individual thoughts as london street lights
blocked in and wrapped up over time,
he grabs a pen and paper and free's his mind
they're not confessions, or poems it's just free write
and when he looks at what he's done
he doesn't understand why he'd kept it all inside

street lights of ember illuminate a face
that writes lines i know you'll remember
he's a writer now but writes like a boxer
and owes a lot of his dedication
to a well educated trainer.

London story part two

London is in a lot of places a lot of the time

a lot of creatives want london in their rhymes

and in order to do that they need to put london in their mind

though one city can never fit in one head,

and London never gives us what we expect

especially when certain pieces don't seem to join together

leaving a lot to overload and rest on their shoulders

get to sharing the same view as london elders

who now have london stuck in their joints 

so they can't move their positions or points

believe they where promised a promise land

but said promises slipped through their hands

and now tell their children there's no love in london

don't put it in your heart, end up with concrete feet 

stuck on the street unable to make a start

pavement will have you swallowed whole 

left hollow so helpless the excuse is she can't help it nor manage

just arrived and barely knows the language

so she lives in a flat with an open front door:

poster on the wall announcing 'spanish on the second floor'

come up to feel mannish, tells them she's nineteen but is really twenty four

gets a lot of punters, becomes popular and after a couple of months 

builds up a list of regulars, i guess there's something about her, 

a certain je ne sai quoi that doesn't come from the others, 

who knows, maybe it's because she treats the customers like lovers- 

and you never get that from where her flat stems

because the west end lights are only bright 

as behind them they hide a soho gone rotten

it's the place you go to become forgotten, 

resulting in a decadence of dead ends

times passed and she's settled in
her existence a definition of her residence
a place you go to, not come from, take from, not give to
time spent watching bones thin, in one year she's aged ten
and that glimmer of what you thought was her
you'd think no longer resides from within
never to be awakened again.
Until a man from her old life walks in.

her welcoming smile is killed by his shocked stare

through his view she sees her

and can't believe she's there.
when you've spent a lot of time in repetition
and you're represented with a new situation
the words you want can often go missing
going through the prices she silences and faces

the wall to stop herself from breaking down altogether

the image of them together is sharper than 
a bucket of ice cold water

they came to london on a bus ride from dover

his name is jetmir, from albania, a boxer

they both came to london on a coach ride from dover

couldn't have said more than five words to each other

but she always felt his eye on her, a sort of protecter

who had a stone face she was determined to break

in the lunchtimes of language classes they took together

she'd invite him to join in from the corner

teasing him because all he ever ate was the pasta

a strict diet for a man determined to be a great boxer

but looking at him now he's missing a finger
what immigrant here hasn't been put through the ringer?

She keeps quiet, maybe he heard about her, here

and he came to see her, she'd

have her very own knight in shinning armour, but

all that comes out of his mouth is nervous laughter

and on that laugh she can smell that he's drunk

foolish to think anything other- just london dumb luck

a familiar face in a space of a hundred faceless men,

then he moves close- gives her a hug and doesn't let go.

she draws a sharp breath feeling the rain from his coat

he leaves not before rambling words in a language she doesn't know
followed by "i never stopped loving you"

but the affect had her froze in

the situation she's awoken

another customer knocks on the door but she wont let it open

she needs to get out she needs to be alone

sometimes it's not about being able to climb

but find the ropes, and in that night, a cycle broke.

Jetmir walks out. And she's still still. Still.

A weird morality takes over,

not even the addiction can hold her

-still took a bag from her draw-

too-thin leather coat over the shoulder

and walked. Out of a night-time soho

when she first came to the west end she was filled with such hope

past oxford circus past the west end.

Can't sleep, too high, still needs a rest.

she lays her head on the tottenham court road station steps.

not knowing, but no longer afraid to ask,

"what next?" 

being a londoner

I hope it'll be the last thing she expects.
Because this city rests on a countless amount of broken necks
so no matter how hard
i will pay my respects
and put london in my heart
because although our protagonist isn't there anymore
it doesn't mean they didn't put another spanish up on that second floor.

Greatest poet who ever lived.

Yo, i knew him before all of you, but it wasn't the him you knew
before he was a prophet he was a poet, and before he was a poet
he was a writer, and before he was a writer he was just like me
and before his projects where poems, his poems where a hobby
The hobby grew and took him to a place where he got to choose

though it only ever seemed like the choice was win, or loose.

and to win for him meant nothing, as the face he saw wasn't his

there was a man from within but but his words came out wrong.

that's what got him into writing, and he would write all day long

an imaginary world where he could write his wrongs

or at least, have them documented. You should read them.

I have them. they're obviously not what you know of him.

but there's something in these works that i think got left behind,

Something that we all leave with a more pure or, naive time.

A man had come and took his place, looked into a mirror and saw another face

but it didn't matter anymore because this face was pretty. and they noticed him, now they liked what he wrote so he had to win

And there where places to go. Shows to watch, no time to stop.

and he never did. God knows if he ever really lived or only, only wrote about it.
The writer I know i believe died a long time ago, and this one was never rated, but was always my favourite.
And that's why, i don't want to state it i hate to say it but i always felt, betrayed.
Like, he changed. We would write and play videogames in his room for days.
everyone thought it was all we knew, when he left there was no way i thought he'd get to where he got to, probably because i didn't even want him to. but, now im here looking at all of you, i guess we all look a little different, depending on the view. He grew. I didn't. But only in the hope he'd one day come back.
So i can't discredit that man, he lived and died for the cause, to get on the stage and feel that applause so when i go if you could at least do that, send him off, with one more clap.

Camden Morning.

was walking down camden town early saturday morning

observing the remains of what was a frantic friday night.

a shuffling drunk, fallen fried chicken and crushed cans,

an eerie stillness surrounds, looks cold, but don't feel so.

Leaving the flat of a girl i was once crazy for a year ago

Looking back i actually snuck out- we where drunk.

Not quite the way i wanted it to go down, but i guess it never is. 

London stories never end like they where written in hollywood,

London don't end the way you expect- that's why london's good.

She kissed me and i kissed her, 

i don't know what more i could have asked for.

a smile springs on my face wondering why i snuck out that door

and if she's awoken yet, or maybe she doesn't know i've left

maybe she's happy, maybe I've become another woman's regret

being a londoner it's probably the last thing i expect.