I hear you



from your performance 


the shit-pit of sermon 

where you scared 

the simple man.

I hear you 



of parish and prayer

with your manners moody 

at mass 

with the mouldable masses.

Years later

over dinner 

and before dessert 

you spilt your sins

between the bread and wine,

your collar in the car

and your blessed ring

upon your manhood.

We can dress in robes,

we can fuck who we want,

but you can’t preach before the choir 

if you take boys in for hire.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly


The wolves are out,
Baying in the shadows,
Fetid breath fowling air,
Drool dribbling in the darkness.
The wolves are out,
Growling gratuitously,
Muzzle sniffing movement,
Fangs feverish for flesh.
The wolves are out,
Their scent; steaming,
Their eyes; searching
For substance to satisfy.
The wolves are out,
Their panting petrifying,
Prowling on poised paws
Picturing us as prey
The wolves are out,
Our streets; their forest now,
Our buildings; their shelter,
Our fear; their force.
The wolves are out,
Drawing disguises
From our likenesses,
Slivering among us
Sniffing out old scars
And worn wounds
To leap at lavishly,
Devour on desperately.
The wolves are out,
Tail twisted in and under,
Standing tall on hind legs,
Shaved bodies to assimilate,
Poured over in perfume
But their stench lingers
To stale the street.
The wolves are out,
There’s horror in their howling
And chaos in their cackling,
Predators posing as persons,
But no pretence parts them
From their purpose
And I worry what their wicked will wants.