Would I have kept you closer, longer, if you’d been a soft toy
that found my empty arms when the nights were endless instead
of your characteristically classy chaos the posters never chose
to optimize

or were we meant to be just chalk running into the deluge
of the rainstorm?

Should I have been less passionate and you more personable
or I more placid and you less proud?

We were stuffing, in the end, plucking feathers from our insides
out through skins that had neither thickened nor tendered enough
to survive those endless flooding nights together in that hold
we never named.

Un nom, c’est quoi, un nom- la tien, la mien, le nôtre ?

Un non est seulement une chose que tu donnes à quelque chose
quand tu le comprends.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly



Truth, lies, tall tales spread across the canyon
of our sighs. My hope, your hurt, my side,
your silence, nothing is distinguishable in this void,
I cannot even identity any let up from the winter
of this valley where the wind winds its way around
the silent subtleties of how you express your hurt
and how I hold my hope- foolishly, foolish, fool
or fooled. We are both breakable and some parts
dissolvable while riding horseback across this canyon
whose cracks are cavernous, two cowboys believing
more in disguise, in the delusions and so we sweep
into such deluge. Somewhere, in between this valley,
somewhere, down below this wind, still tangible,
there is a bridge that crosses the truth of our lies,
bashful and broken. But we don’t want to find it



All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Day 15; National Poetry Writing Month 30 Days/30 Poems #NaPoWriMo

There’s a girl
this morning
on the metro,
unaware of the crowds,
unaware that I’m late.

There’s a girl
on the metro
packed with tears,
with tears in her eyes
and no place for more lies.

There’s a girl
on the metro
in the morning,
moving through motions,
through stations of grieving
and tunnels of tears.
Her breath is broken
like she’s been running
from something,
like this train
that we’re on
that keeps on breaking

and she’s breaking
this morning,
this girl
on the metro,
with tears
and tunnels
and stops
with no answers.

This girl
on the metro,
unaware that I’m late,
this girl who’s missing
something on the metro,
who’ll miss that someone
who’s making her cry,
who’ll miss that someone
when the lines divide

and leaves her
in tracks of tears.

All Words and Photographs By Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:



A bridge in blue
between me and you
no car can carry me
no boat can bare me
no bike can bring me


A bridge in blue
between me and you
too deep to dare
too cold to consider
too close for comfort

all connection crushed by the current.


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Amsterdam at Sunset

After Eden

How did they mess it up

So soon after that first breath,

So new to this life,

With all and everything


In front of them,

Under their naked feet,

At the end of their finger tips?

How did they not see

The wealth they wore

Instead of clothes,

The peace they had

Within the walls of paradise?

How could they let that

Deluge of distraction

Descend upon their divinity

And denounce their demise

So disastrously?


And yet, here we are-

For centuries foreigners

To those famous fields

Of golden innocence,

Slithering about,

Nothing less

Than slivering serpents-

One and all,

Sadistic and sarcastic,

Overly self-indulgent,

Remarkably self-centered

And so far removed

From those gardens

Of primordial delight

That we’ve lost sight

Of the very suggestion

That this singular sin



We’ve neglected

To remind ourselves

Of the consistently

Concentric consequences

Of the first bite into

Lust and longing,

Pride and power.


History is no more

Than a slinky sling,

Sliding down the steps of time

And repeating its repulsion’s

Again and again,

As we watch on

As if it’s the first time,

As if it’s a shock,

As if we knew no better,

As if we were the first to fumble,

As if we were Adam and Eve-

Caught innocently

With mouths open-

That luscious piece of apple

Barely resting-

As yet undigested-

On our tongue,

As if we had no guidance,

Like we had never learned

How to divide

Right from wrong.


And yet,

If we could only look back

We’d see it was as easy

As that first divide

Of Man from Paradise

Or that even clearer division

Of Adam and Eve.