Why I Believe In Faerie Tales

I wrote this at something like white heat.  I haven’t done that in a very long time and it felt very good, however, I feel that despite any quick revisions I have made whilst typing it out that it is still raw and might need a little polish, or rouge, a bit of eyeliner perhaps, a nice lipstick, you know, something to get it tarted up a bit and ready to go out on the town.  Ok, I beat that little metaphor to death, but you get the point.  I have written pieces similar to this before, or at least covering the same topic and this is mostly because it is one that is so very important to me, in fact is necessary for my continued survival on this planet.  There is still a lot I have left unsaid both here and in other writings, so this will be something I revisit, but I am hoping that in this piece I have captured both the despair and hope that I feel in myself and that I seem to see in others and that it will speak to someone.  I guess though, that is what we all hope for, to say something and hear someone else say “yeah, I am totally the same”.  As always my dear readers, enjoy and feel free to respond.



On any given day it sits in me

A swallowed stone hard, cold, pitiless

Both a burden and a seed

The flat, numb greyness of it

Seeps through my flesh, calcifies my soul

Soon there will only be obdurate granite

Empty marble hallways containing only the whispers of dust

Leaving no feeling nor desire or even wish or remembrance of either

This world infecting me with its sickness

The brutal onslaught of reality will leave nothing but bare, juice-less flesh.


It is everywhere, all of the time

Behind the eyes of the checkout girl

Sometimes I think I can see the silhouette of a man in her bedroom doorway

Pain, shame, and fear mingled with lost thoughts

Of safety or dreams of innocence stolen,

Memories of one long scream in the endless night after night

Choking on the scent of aftershave and lust sweat

Praying that her sister will be safe

As long as she is good and obedient and quiet…


Or maybe it is in the talking head on my T.V.

Paragon of morality cardboard cutout fake

Spewing hot vitriol guise’d as righteous indignation

The poison in the ear of Denmark

Leaving something rotten and stinking

Giving permission, valediction, benediction

For the release of all the jellied bile curdling in the souls of a somnolent public

Just waiting to be told that yes,

It is ok, your fears and need to shift the blame are justified

Hate them for everything you see in yourself that you loathe but cannot face

All the naked emperors laughing and pointing to each other.


Every day all I see is scar tissue

Laced thin over open, gangrenous wounds

Progress paving over passion

More and more of our lives laid bare

In the autopsy of our hunger

Illusions stripped one by one by the men of reason

Until there is nothing left to believe

Only empty ash barren sterile fact

Or at best the worship of pop idols

Tarnished, fallible

Raised so very high and held pinned by the thousand watt glare of our scrutiny

Just so we can tear them down again

Taking comfort that they really were no better than us to begin with,

Laughing in child like glee over the poor withered corpses of what once had maybe been their dreams.


It is in the face of all of this

The rising tides of emotional sewage clogging the ether

As I walk that fine edge of bright shining madness

Because insanity seems the only rational response

To this Babel tower we have built from the wreckage and detritus left

In the wake of our spiritual bankruptcy

I believe…

I believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the fact

That faeries were born from a child’s laughter.

I believe in fat, jolly leprechauns

Who exist for no other reason

Than to put pots of gold at the end of rainbows

So that we can have something to chase.

I believe that there is nothing as pure as a first kiss,

Nervous, trembling, expectant and full of all the promises poets can conjure or contrive.

I believe there are dragons in the subways and trolls under bridges,

Little men who can spin straw into gold and the power of knowing something for what it is and it’s true name.

I believe in true love and that it will in fact conquer all despite any evidence to the contrary,

That the hero wins and villainy will cause it’s own downfall, but not before receiving its just desserts.

I believe in dreams and dreamers and that “The Rainbow Connection” holds all the truth you will ever need,

In bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens and that the frost

Is the demented painting of a blue skinned elf named Jack.


I believe all of these things for one very simple reason,

Because in the dark, in the cold there can be

One tiny ring of warmth at the hear of the growing mausoleum of this world

To hold up just one bright scrap of wonder in the face of implacable fact

Fragile and pale though it may be

Just a breath, a whisper of hope

The thunderous beating of soft butterfly wings to rail

Against the dead tomb silence.


And that is why I believe in faerie tales.



7 Responses to “Why I Believe In Faerie Tales”

  1. wow. this is very dark and very good. Even the small reference to Hamlet which, in some ways reminds me of some of the turmoil rolling around in Hamlet’s head that Shakespeare forgot to tell us about. And then a turn away from that darkness, partly, is very effective.

    • I am very glad that you liked it, both the darkness and the light so to speak. Since you pointed it out, I really did like that Hamlet reference myself and since this is my blog I will both take your praise as well as vigorously pat myself on the back. We poets are really such vain whores after all. 🙂

  2. Another gem so deftly delivered! Pat away but save strength for the next Blackian offering.

  3. blackwatertown Says:

    A good argument for believing in fairies. I know a pub on the Cooley penninsula in County Louth which has the clothes of a leprachaun caught by the late proprietor.
    Not sure about the line with scar tissue over an open wound though – I could well be wrong – but I’d have thought it would be either open or covered with scar tissue, but not both. (I appreciate I may well have deftly illustrated me missing the point of your imagery. If so, I slink away shamefaced.)

    • Maybe scar tissue wasn’t the right word, but the image I was going for is that first scab just forming over a fresh wound, the skin beginning to knit into a scar but still fresh enough that it is still red and wet. Thanks for sharing the bit about the leprechaun clothes in the pub, I love hearing stuff like that, it sort of keeps me in the faith so to speak 🙂

      • blackwatertown Says:

        Yeah – I get what you mean.
        Staying with fairies etc – some of my friends and family always greet the fairies when crossing a fairy bridge. (You know it’s a fairy bridge because there’s a sign saying so.)

      • We don’t have any bridges with signs on saying where the faeries live here, but I still know where they are, and I say “hi” whenever I can. 🙂

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