Watching across the tv screen, I watch your eyes flickering,
Standing beside you, the tentacles of time.
As the sound of cars drifting outwards, whispering changes,
Amazed we cannot sleep. Drifting we sleep.
I swear I saw your face change, the mirrors savaged night’s long waters.
Slaughtered, the characters are dead. Drunken debris pacified
A cancer creeps inside the night sky. Child, o Child.
The supper’s cooling, lifted swathes bathing out
The time’s run out, another programme
Wasps the lights behind. Too bright
The Moon enlights the people gasping-
“The farmer’s dead, with him the king,
We’re losing everything”.
Wandering how the battle’s lit the fight we clasped,
Grasping everything a butterfly springs the wings,
Greyed in palettes, pictured pulses, practicing gypsy routines
Knowing nothing will change the suffering.
Farming collecvities, proclivities, persuasions pandering
Proliferated mockeries, what are we?
Asking the magistrate what the capitulated comforts contained.
“She lies with her legs open, a spiritual pose,
She lies with legs, with it a rose”
I look for a willow, withering whites weathering pestering polluted pertinence,
Passionate pugnacious poetry pubescently pleasantries pieties pyramids.
Longevity lollardies lexicalised lavarotories, lambasting lyricists languining latterly.
The number tripled in sucession of sixes,
Marrowing mysteries masterfully managed maniacs murdering mountaineers
“Open the gates, flooding in finally,
Feverish fatalism fools the penalty”.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish writer, who writes when he travels. Writing between Cork, Madrid, Prague and Cambridge, Lyng’s work can be read in Vada Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Poets Reading The News, and Spillwords Poetry.