Ian Shearer

Image by: Villi.Ingi

by horrorsleazetrash on September 22, 2010

Photography credit: Villi.Ingi

Ian Shearer is a hack from Belfast who specialises in bullshit. He has delusions of one day being a writer and film maker, and if he had a day job you would tell him not to give it up. He is an editor for Horror Sleaze Trash and has a regular spot on Bandwidth Sessions called This Is Not A Review. He was too camera shy to submit a photo of himself, the poor bastard…

Blossom

On the rarest day
when everything seemed
like it may just
turn out all right,
I passed a woman
brushing cherry blossoms
out of her yard and
into the gutter.

Content that the yard
was as clean and clear,
and grey and sad
as the one next door
she waddled back inside,
her extra folds rolling like a sea
inside her lovely
pink pyjamas.

And I just thought,
fuck it.

Death In The Sun

I like to walk the shore
after the tide rolls back,
stomping wet sand and
crunching shells as
I look for signs of life
in the glimmering rock pools.

But all I find
are the crabs that died,
the ones that the water
left behind.

Milky bellies
turned to the sun,
claws open,
legs splayed,
I wonder why they
always die on their backs.

If maybe they do it
to make their insignificant deaths
a little more dramatic.

I tell myself
I should remember that.

It’s a pretty clever trick.

Not Enough

Even a man
Sitting alone on the grass
Painting the view
So his moment will last,
Even on a starry night
A pretty girl drinking wine
And reciting a poem
Even one that rhymes,
Even photos of your children
Even honey bees at work
Even the smile
Of someone in love,
Because of people like
You and me
The beauty will never
Be enough.

She Says

She says
I think you drink too much,
I say
Only because I think too much,
But it doesn’t ring true
Or sound as clever
As I thought it would.

She says
How come you hate everyone
and sit at home and drink alone?
I say
I don’t hate everyone I just try my best
I just hate most of them
and only because I love the rest.

She says
Well what about the drinking?
I don’t know how
you do it
I say
I guess it’s like the thinking
I don’t know how
you don’t.

Irish Man Walks Into A Bar

Trying to drink
in a Belfast pub
on St. Patrick’s Day
is like trying to fuck
in a hotel lift
on a Saturday afternoon,
like most things
it only works
in the movies.

Four deep from the bar
some old man asks
why I’m not smiling?

My sadness
is killing his buzz
so I shoot him a grin,
pour it down,
and pull the shades
on the window
to my thirsty soul.

But the women, Jesus!
Maybe Paddy was
a saint after all.

Smiling drunk and
dancing sex,
knowledge shining in their eyes
that they are better than me
just blinds them to
the very same shine
in mine.

Then some old guy
pushes through the crowd
and I understand his stare.

These people are not his
and neither is their cause,
they just get in our way
and we’ll both be here
long after the green hats leave,
and we won’t queue so long to piss.

Of course no one notices
when I leave,
so maybe I wasn’t really there.

Maybe just a lonely dream
of a bar full of dames
and a drink in either hand
but
it was only a dream?

shit,
that only works
in the movies.

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