BOOKENDS; GOLDEN GREENS IN THE GARDEN OF GREEDY YOUTH

  In days now distant, we were one floor up, apartment dwellers whose viewless windows revealed to us more than the darkness that tried to appeal to us. Tambourine Therese tapped her tunes of truths not yet tasted, tumble leaves freshly fallen from the trees in the apple orchard of golden greens begging to be […]

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BOOKENDS; BETWEEN THE LIGHT AND THE LEGACY

  Paris, in between the light and the legacy, there is a silence waiting to be heard.     All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly This month is about looking at the shadow and light of Paris and the part I played in it, or the parts she played within me.

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BOOKENDS; WHEN CONSIDERING WHAT TO WEAR

  I was always looking to find the lighter side, the brighter side of your cold concrete cold corpses once carved into your concerns. You were papered over in such pomp and circumstance, such rigidity and reformation from centuries since removed but I found, once we pealed back each other’s layers that breath lingered behind […]

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BOOKENDS; EVOLUTION 12, SOME PEOPLE THAT WE USED TO BE

  We sit now and sip cocktails, the waiter pulls out your chair and hands me the menu after calling you madame. I strain now to hear your voice; softer, gentler, feminine finding freedom. I catch you checking your lipstick in the mirror, pulling a curl back into place above those blushed cheekbones still a […]

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BOOKENDS; WHEN THE BREATH COMES AFTER THE BREAK

    The lilt of the lavender that lingered for days, long after, by the leaning, before the louvre, the sweet consolation of candy floss cologne that stayed on the pillow, after you had parted. It is sometimes that simple; a scent to sail you back to me as if I never left the garden, […]

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BOOKENDS; SLOW MOVING SORROW

In the supermarket on Saturday in the 14th on the 14th in numb November in Paris, their Paris, our Paris, my Paris, people push grief in comfortless trolleys down shadowed aisles of silence, strangers claiming their spaces in solidarity, in queues of slow-moving sorrow, seeing shadow in places where once there was light, terror in […]

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BOOKENDS; BETTER BOTTLES

  In the shadows not yet departed from former students, since departed, in confined compartments the Polish left to the Irish, red vinegar wine (as vulgar as the vultures who drowned in its deluge) caught itself in corners still not drunk by the blow-ins still bleating about the burnt beef and sodden soil as we […]

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