THIS DESERT WHERE WE DROWNED THE DANCE

26/03/202016/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

This Desert where We Drowned the Dance

Guttural;
pertaining to a particular sound
at the back of the mouth, there,
in that spot not quite reachable,
still quite parched.

Water;
to sprinkle, to moisten. I do this
to quench a longing I can’t reach
though I cannot hold this liquid
just like I couldn’t retain the lips
that once kissed this neck, here
where throat was left parched.

Energetic;
processing or exhibiting energy
in abundance, like I had before
your truth got twisted, before
all your charming turned into
that drought which buried us
while you left me;
Guttural.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR

THE LIGHT IS TOO LIGHT

26/07/201926/07/2019 / deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

Light leaks like water
dripping from the faucet.

You called me baby
before you really knew me
and stopped calling at all,
afterwards
drip…
drip…
nothing.

Light lingers in quite corners
like memories that refuse to flicker,
not acknowledging that the night
has fallen.

We pour over each other
like liquid on a perched desert,
sucking sustenance from substance,
leaching life from any length,
dryer…
dryer…
death.

I dived deep down to the bottom
and found only a drought
drowning on the ocean floor.

Were you the desert or the drought?

Was I the ocean or merely drowning?

Bubble…
bubble…
nothing.

Light lifts the illusions
we sleep upon beneath the darkness,
when everything is possible
and no one ever parts.

I am not one part us,
I am not one part you,
I am not one or the other,
I am the I that was your baby.

Remember?

I was light, you said in the midst
of so much weight but you remained
light on love, regardless.

Light leaks like dripping water
from a faucet
drip…
drip…

onto the broken plates and half eaten hopes
that cannot be either washed or erased.

Light is too light to lift the stains
from the remains of what began
with the words

I want to drown in your eyes.

Light frequently floods
the flaccid lies we feed ourselves
just so we can get from day to night.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a re-post

A SEAT ON THE TRAIN

19/03/201724/01/2018 / deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

A factory man
forged in fights
on streets
and bars
on iron clad nights
and a local girl
born and raised
in longing,
loss
and dreams unglazed
who crash sometimes
behind the shades
to drink,
to fuck,
to drop their blades
on this desert town
of dirt and dust,
of cactus,
crows
and mounting rust.

An old train tears
right through the town
to tense,
to tease
all those around,
it rarely stops,
just blows on through
the drab,
the dust,
that vacant view.