DON’T COME TO TAME THE CAT

 

Red sun burns below a blue moon
and the tiger rips through trees
to escape the cat. Sometimes
small things need to be as sharp
as an icicle even when the sun
comes to burn red beneath blue
moons while she sings of those
crazy cries of Havana’s love.
She sang of Paris once while
somewhere else and California
while in Greece. She was blue too,
like that moon, while in green
and again with those icicles
and no baby for birthday clothes-
letting go’s a bitch, like moving on,
even if you’re just a fearless pussy
cat and the tiger is too scared
to fuck with you. Earlier, luxuriant
leant in, hissing all over her
manicured lawns of blue pools
and strangling centrepieces.
Always the blue below that burning
sun and those picture-perfect settings
as if to foretell of all that will follow.
Red sun burns below a blue moon
and pussy purrs alone while the tiger
takes cover beneath the shade of
the green cactus tree with phallic
spikes that look like limp icicles.

   

All words and drawings by Damien B Donnelly. Some thoughts inspired by the music and lyrics of Joni Mitchell

THE MOTION OF GOING SOUTH

 

I’ve only been to Cork once,
to a funny place they called The Other Place
which I thought was like the Scottish play
with the name you’re never supposed to say.

In another place, beforehand, we’d sat
on beer kegs in a girl’s bar called Loafers
and I giggled at all the comfy shoes
in astonishment and thought that sitting
on a keg felt more like a punishment.

I’d only been to Cork once, when I was 20,
a year since I’d had my first kiss, with a boy,
behind a sofa, at a party.
You catch on quick, I heard him murmur
and so I dropped the tongue in further.

That drive down to Cork in the 90’s
felt like operation transportation-
5 sisters of Dorothy all crammed in the car
singing Liza and Barbara in proud
polychrome while inside I was thinking
this was certainly no place like home.

We slipped out of Loafers
and their shoes that had absorbed me
and headed to that no name place
that was actually called The Other Place.

A disco it was with lads against the wall
and I thought you’re man in the white socks-
I won’t be snogging him at all.

They opened up a back room, in Cork,
halfway through the Whitney medley
which caused a run for the big buns on sale-

fruity scones sausage rolls,
fondant fancies and fairy cakes,

in Cork, at the disco,
in The Other Place,

when all the gays still ate sugar
and some grandmother’s doily
was the only bit of fecking lace.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

BOOKENDS; A CITE OR A SHADOW

 
A city and a shadow, a choice; to stay or leave,

to concede and crown myself as conquered and then be crushed
or to continue on as committed commuter,

to be complacent
or constantly curious for more light so as to comprehend the darkness,

to break down the barrier between all there is to fear
and come, face to face, with all there is to be.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This month is about looking back to see how I can move forward. A final goodbye to Paris before moving to Ireland. 

SHORT STORIES OF FEAR; SLICED

 

A short poem of fear

A haunting is happening in this house that holds me,
a sinister spirit that lies in the shadows,
a feeling of fear is feeding on frenzy
as it ghoulishly groans and gasps from its gallows.

A breath is baying by this bed that now binds me
with its fetid foulness that flits by my face,
a mischievous menace that will not let me be,
I fear the already dead splitting time and space.

A demon is devising a death to destroy me,
his clutch a cold and callous caress,
while no face nor fingers nor form can I see
there’s dread in this dark I cannot suppress.

A sour scent stains the sheets where I slumber
reeking of rank and rotten revulsions,
it exhales a heinous, horrible, hunger
of demonic desires and cursed compulsions.

A miserable monster while mumbling madness
is slapping and sliding something sharp on my skin,
between life and death there’s not much to divide us;
but the grind to be good and the seduction of sin.

A haunting is happening in this house that holds me,
a sinister spirit groaning from its gallows,
a face is now forming and two eyes can I see
as I’m dragged into darkness to be sliced in the shadows.

 

All words and photographs by Dmien B Donnelly

FRANCE IS CALLING, ATTENDS!

Packing boxes…
Separating substance
From superficial,
Measuring
All that matters
In the memory
Against
All that clutters
In the closet,
And France is calling…
Attends!

Packing boxes…
Selling superfluous
And saving sentiments,
Tittering
At trousers
Thought to be trendy
And fretting
At photos
Of faces forgotten,
And France is calling…
Attends!

Packing boxes…
Putting pressure
On the present,
Grateful
If the greener grass
Can be gainful
While worrying
If the words
Will return,
And France is calling…
Attends!

Packing boxes…
Filing fears
Into folders,
Singing
And skipping
And sighing and shaking,
Threading
The tracks
To tomorrow,
And France is calling…
J’arrive!

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MY MUSE

Dance with me for a while you asked
And how could I refuse?
The belle of the ball at a soiree of cities
You are lady and goddess, the muse.

Deep in your heart I walked through you
To see you for what you are,
The product of passion and maker of magic
Like the light from a glorious star.

Home in your arms I was in you
And welcomed in from the cold,
You shone out your soul as you filled me with music
While your palaces shimmered with gold.

Comme La Petit Prince I came to you
Questioning life and romance,
Well I learned how to live ‘neath your city of light
And found real love in a solo dance.

In Père Lachaise I wept for you,
For the heroes you have lost,
The sparrow of Piaf, the spirit of Bernhardt
Seurat and Balzac and Proust.

Canvas of white, a child again
At play in the fields of you,
You opened the doors to your present and past
From the Palais Royal to the Pompidou.

You kept a watch both night and day
Lit a light for me to glide
From your cafes of jazz to your muscles of men
I inhaled every smoky dark side.

By Sacré-Cœur I looked on you
Till my eyes were pools of tears,
From La Tour Eiffel to your grand Musée du Louvre
I’d surrendered in you all my fears.

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