Hemingway loved the bull, both the beast and the shit-
the bravado of animal instinct bared on horny streets
in the heat, caught up, breathless, in the chase-
the Aficionado on fire, at the Fiesta, those buen hombres
who always knew how to get a room in a hotel
with nothing left to rent

and that other artist, galloping
for his freedom through the fearless fools
in the sweltering sun, under crowded balconies
but the crowd knew the clause, freedom was not his prize
at the end, after the gallop, inside the ring as the rocket roared
and the costumes and cape commenced.

Hemingway loved the bull…

‘Sentir le sable sous ma tête c’est fou comme ça peut faire du bien,
j’ai prié pour que tout s’arrête, Andalousie je me souviens…’

Lyrics from ‘La Corrida’ by Francis Cabrel


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


minutes  moving

There are but minutes now,
minutes in motion on metros, 
minutes moving in on me,
on my identity 
on my mark, on my leaning,
on my meaning, 
meaning I am moveable
like a feast, as he said,
A Moveable Feast,
meaning I am manageable 
maybe unremarkable, mistakable.

There are but minutes now, 
minutes moving in
on my metamorphosis,
on my undoing,
on my unbecoming,
is it unbecoming? 
on my being misunderstood, 
misinterpreted, misrepresented, 

I am famished,
the feast has moved,           on
mindless to the matters
that manipulate me
mould me
remodel me.

Minutes, there are but minutes
multiplying on metros moving,
on me, in motion

minutes making minutes minus minutes.


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken in the Arts et Métiers Metro Station, Paris, France.