SIMPLE

  

Love is a simple thing-
a jaded house waiting
to be resold, to be a home again,
you knock unexpectedly
and I utter Enter, please,
much like last time,
already setting the table for two.
Love is a simple thing

fragile and foolish and forgetful.

Love is a simple thing-
a game of tennis,
a juggle of balls back and forth,
the hunger to have the control
of love and all its advantages
before it’s match point
with a set of side-lined backhands
played below the baseline.
Love is a simple thing

blinded by the sexy shorts and those tight strings.

Love is a simple thing
like the heart-
it needs oxygen to survive,
like any organ-
it needs the right fingers
to play it perfectly

Love is a simple thing-
find your oxygen before
laying the table or crossing the court
or reaching for the note
you were never meant to play.

   

All words and sketches by Damien B. Donnelly

A BIG BULL CAN BE JUST A BIG BAG OF BULL

 

I shouted at the TV last week, beyond the stilled fields
recently ploughed of their prize, where now we wait
and watch for new seeds where hope was replanted.
I stopped to moo last week as you bellowed back at us
from the not-so-stilled screen in our isolated living room-

you’d be going to the pub;

One must support the landlords, you said, not everyone, of course
but some of us must do our bit, you said, on This Morning,
with Phil and Holly and Vanessa, now back on Virgin.

I roared like a farmer, last week, who’d lost control
of an old Bull, still so convinced of his shiny cock
and bull tales the Union had regaled since 1845.

We recall what failed us once with every filled plate
that passes our table now, while you bury yourself
in the Best of Bull, keeping up with the Hancocks’-

down the pub with balls forward and brain resting
derriere where you happily placed the Irish, once,
when we were nothing but dying boats running west

from cold hands in the east.

I shouted at the tv last week and yesterday, I asked;
Did you take your son to the pub too, that night after the sofa,
after the stinking bull broke free from the paddock,
all horny but headless; hiding all the fear, all the silage,

in the face of the ripe old rot of the best of British.

Yesterday, they announced the Young Bull at No.10
was poorly. How’s the beer taste now, Old Bull?

PS, the PM ain’t no monument to immortality.

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Candy Floss

I am falling
All around you,
Not sure
Who is more senior
Or sensible.
I thought you needed
To be cradled
In arms
But found it to be
I who was held-
Your fingers running through my hair,
Your breath against my neck,
Your body wrapped around me
And somehow
I am comforted
In this touch-
Too unsure of what it is,
Too young to hold on to.

Yet how could it ever be different;
You are only now learning
What I have known so long,
You are only just tasting
What I have already named.
You are the bountiful
Blossoming
Of youth in all its
Glorious ignorance-
You are all that I once
Put to rest
And yet,
It surprises me, aches me,
At how frequently
I try to shout you more aware,
But I listened not then
Just as you should not now!

I am falling
Foolishly
All around you,
Texting tirelessly
While thoughtlessly
Disregarding the time that divides us
And ignoring how difficult it will be
In time
To separate us.
Perhaps you are
My delightful distraction
In this time of transformation;
My folly
Of frivolous foolishness
Amid
All that is so seemingly
Balanced and structured.
The chaos to calm
My compulsion
To control it all.

You are the whimsical
Carefree laughter,
The kiss of sunshine in the morning-
Deliciously silly and sweet,
The candy floss at the fairground-
Spun purely of sugar and air,
Too tempting not to taste,
Too insubstantial to last for long.

candyfloss