TO CARNIVORE OR NOT

 

Sometimes

I imagine holding mine
in my hands, beating organ-
fleshy and fumbling and trembling
between my thumbs and fidgeting fingers

bringing it to my mouth-

my lips- their caress, my tongue- its tease.

Sometimes
I imagine holding mine
in my hands and bringing it in
close enough to bite.

If I ate it,
would it slip right back inside,
into place, perhaps a better place

than where it’s been before.

Sometimes
I imagine holding mine
in my hands, like you did
and wondering if I could bring myself
to tear it apart

with my teeth.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

DOWN THE DRAIN

 

My body

my body has a memory
my body has a memory of you
my body has a memory of your skin.

My body

my body remembers
my body remembers how it bent
my body remembers how it bent to your beckoning.

And yet

my mind
my mind has washed itself
my mind has washed itself of your name

like it was no more than scum
to be scrubbed.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a re-post

I DREAM

 

Dreaming,

 

seeing time

as something silky

you can slip though,

 

rearranging reality,

 

the hours revolving

around minutes

around molecules

neither past nor present;

 

the future still waiting

to be moulded,

 

dreaming

of tempering time;

 

of breaking it

 

of bending it;

 

redrawing curt corners

into kinder curves,

rerouting long roads

into achievable lengths.

 

I bend time

beyond this bed

of twisted sheets,

 

these withered webs,

 

tired and torn,

 

and mend

in my mind, slumbering,

that which was cracked

 

before the mirror

catches its reflection

of disruption,

of distraction,

of rejection.

 

And I wonder

in all this bending,

in all this mending,

 

how much the mind

will remember

 

and how capable am I,

in waking,

 

to let time forget?

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

MAGNETIC POETRY: SUMMER STORM 

 

Beat away at breast;
a lie of love grown to lust,
grown repulsive,
‘Whisper who we were,’
rose water, a shadow symphony
drunk on a dream,
smooth shot to sordid,
bitter chocolate screams
beneath the sweaty skin
of a summer storm.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by the magnetic poetry oracle

HANGING ON HAPPY SONGS

 

We hang ourselves whole
by the ropes that we weave
into wishes, veins that vie
like vines by the nooses
we knot around necks,
twisted and tangled
around muscle and tissue
that dries no tears. We
are stained with the tears
the years have taught us
to play with. We try to play
happy songs on hardened hearts
than cannot be healed, cutting
ourselves on cords too costly
to be constant, too broken
to be buoyant.

We hang ourselves whole
thinking hope can fill the hole.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

TO BE HEARD AMID THE MAYHEM

Hear me roar,
Here me howl,
Hear me tell
Tongue twisting tales
Of terror and tragedy,
Tense and tightly
Woven in apathy,

Here me roar,
Here me howl,
Here me cry
Torrents of tears
To tear through territories
Too timid to ask for comfort,
Too disjointed to unite minorities,

Here me roar,
Here me howl,
Here me slap
The truth on the table,
Cut the lies with a knife,
Drain the good from the bad,
Starve the sin to save the life,

Hear me roar,
Here me howl,
Here me laugh
At all the unbearables,
Rise above all that’s insurmountable,
Ignore all the incidentals,
Defy all that’s undefeatable,

Hear me roar,
Here me howl,
Here me sing
Of the hand that helped me,
Rejoice in the words healed kept me,
Be reborn through the ones who freed me,
Be remembered in the hearts that sheltered me.