Poetry: A Winter’s Day In Wexford by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

North Main Street signways sideways

Arches a couple’s caress confessed

Pre-marital sincerities effortlessly

Endearing a jesters generosity.  

Fenian foxes locking hearts habits boxed

Sandsian cries in a prison cell sells death capably

Coffee containers measured malignantly. The night

Has darkened as the eighties channels channeling

Conventions, set as Madonna persists

In her laden tale lustily employed.

It is a private matter pertained, passively

That a radiator banker believes herself of the wine

He left her paying while his parents explain

The subtleties a life long marriage-

 She stops.

 Tripped in his matters, his eyes release

A well of lab rats furrowed borrowing

Brilliantly benign becoming bereaved

Between begathered bethrothed betwitxt

. He Waits. . …


Kate Bush’s voice exists in a caffeine flown factory

Insomniacs intimating irritiation irretrievably

Insolence, a darklands Reid rode, writing

The sounds that my head clatters with William’s

Guitaring, far outing my mind.

A cigarette channels the nicotine splashed

The rain cut chased. Resistance aches, aspirational,

Irritational, stimuli, Wexford shines, off the systemised

Ground, I have no choice but to walk away.


Sermons serenade the centipede solemnly,

Catholic the music the cafeteria plays.