I had a hand 

in every bone 

that was broken 

on this body.

I had a hold

of every hack

that was heaped

into this heart.

I held that hand

while thinking of another 

once forgotten

before imagining someone else

I hadn’t even met,

as you watched out the window

as connection passed you by.

We are not broken by others,

it all depends on how willing

we are to bend, be bent

or play blind.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly



Inspired by the magnetic poetry oracle and filling in the gaps between the lines…
Remember the magic
(even malicious learns to linger)
marble smoke in sacred sky
(we twisted like timbers burning into embers)
candy kissed in caramel
(no support can be so sweet)
a dark poison
(my veins, your vice)
blushed and broken;
we were a prisoner to your perfume
(my hold and hope; both haemorrhaging)
bleeding on bluegrass
(sharp notes plucked on tender strings)
no peace in her poetry
(even her pen grew to pierce)
desire devours delicious
(hunger harbours not a healthy hold)
porcelain can be as cool concrete.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly



I cast myself mesmerised
by your movements, the curse
of your curves as you covet
my consciousness, as you
unbutton my willingness
to submit, to sink between
these sheets of submission,
to succumb to every single
suggestion that oozes
from the aura you amplify
behind the clothes, beyond
the flesh. We are both body
bound to the other, unable
to ascertain who is handcuffed

and who holds the key.

All words and sketches by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a 3 word Poetry Prompt “Cast. Unbutton. Aura” from #SenseWrds on Twitter

To the East of Ignorance

I had wanted to show you it all;

For you to revel

As much as I

In the magnificence I had seen

And felt.

Perhaps it was my fault-

In the extreme-

Maybe my blinkered view,

Like the race horse-

Seeing only the green of the track

And the glory of the win ahead

While missing the money hungry betters to the sides

And the jockey with whip behind.

But still,

The entire time your view

Saw only the concrete beneath your feet

As if you feared to place a step


And so lose your American footing.

You proved as cold

And impenetrable

As the surface upon which you walked,

Moved only by a metal banister

That you pleaded with me to photograph

Least your creativity

Failed to capture it.

Yet it was you who’d become captured;

Trapped in a foreign land

That you had longed to see

And yet failed-

So perfectly-

To look upon.

To create means more than just

Standing on the spot of inspiration.

You lolled about

Almost as inanimately

As the statues that surrounded us.


Their shadows appeared to sway

In the sunshine

With so much more gusto than yours-

At least, until you fell needy

And your dull American twang

Rang out monotonously

To disrupt the ambience

And civility

That enchanted me

And washed over you

Like you were oil-based,

Cardboard cut-out,

Dull reflection

Of someone else-

Hardly remembered.

Alcohol loosened you

Along with athletic fumblings

In a beamed ceiling room

In Saint Paul,

But we were neither drunk

Nor naked

All the time,

Although it felt like I had stripped

Bare for you,

To show you my secret

Parisian life

That, malheurusement,

Over half the world shared.

In that tree-lined park

Below the radiant sunshine

I feigned sleep and watched you

Behind darkened shades

And wondered

Where you were.

You noted it strange how the boys played


Instead of baseball

And I realized

That you had not even boarded the plane

Or removed yourself

From your ignorant States.

I chilled in the warmth,

Amid that sun-filled square,

On that Sunday afternoon

In July

As I watched you

Fall intrigued

By little boys at play

And your comic books

Became all the more

Disturbingly understandable.