This Howling Wind by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1591000525This Howling Wind

A stirring sound of thunder whistles through the heady days of wreckless sleeping, hearts beating and others speaking their nonsense. The wind is crying through those heady hours, cold showers, killing flowers, for Spring to grow them back in place. These grinding sounds and piling pounds will take more than earth to put right in place, but this heavy wind is calling through the stormy skies and will carry throughout the night. And it rains, it pours, the old man snores, until he cannot wake again from that comatose, and pitter patter, more dreams are shattered, from a never ending rain. Let it breeze and flee through the crowds that seek shelter from a sitting place, let it soak and roast  those who most often oppose supposing those who’ll never speak again of happiness. This howling wind has dragged the sun down to its very knees, and asks it please, to never forget the stronger force, to force this flogged horse for a century more of weathered battles. This wind is strong. This wind is strong.

Where Plato Wrote by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1591000525Where Plato Wrote


Where Plato wrote has now been spoiled

By accountants and shirt ties,

With an interest in economy,

Foregoing unity.

What Sophocles wrote of Electra,

A warrior bolder in spirit than in size,

Has been riddled by a system of men

All grabbing and running for a prize

Of medals and cheques

To keep away from prying hands

Hands that long ago made ideas,

Ideas and men.

But if Odysseus could sail amongst the sirens,

Naked, and short of arms,

Why can´t the working people

Find their notes to pay the great.

Love Is The Mind by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1591000525Magnifying paper glass, worming around the silver grain,

Oscilating out of touch, wilful in its soulless pane,

Grasping grass upon the gases placid in a jelly letterbox,

Filtered words in a tattered stained Goldilocks,

Slivering wildly the outer man kicks the ball,

Antony’s empire splattered against the wall,

Flourescent flames of green, orange and white,

As Union Jackets throw their water guns in spite,

The gingerbreads have a say in the right wing blues,

That robs the kangarooed working men their dues,

And they paint their lives in palettes greyer still,

Tasting the asphalt from their bittered pills,

Hill climbing dues in situated cerealed joke,

Brother, brother me in cigarette smoke,

A fishy story in cobwebbed holes,

Trump cards in a pack of thieves and moles,

And the liquid guitars shaped as pies,

Hitler’s moustache sold for lies,

A mirrored glazed potato wasted fate,

Love is the mind we wish we could hate

My Lady Rests by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
PhotoFunia-1591000525My lady rests beside me,
breathing in a two tome,
forlorn argument before
we wore our masters,
gently engaging in a foreplay;
so say….
the poets, those who write it,
who do it, justice, do it
just, do the, do the love
dance, and I’d rather
no other partner, Carol,
fair Carol, lie with me, take
me there, here as I fear it
calmed by a night’s cruel
shiver, shimmering I hand back
to you the blanket top..
unclothed and derobed, I pose
myself by side, as I hide wet
from the breasts that touch me
touch me, could they touch me, vouch
on a pillow, lade bare, I kiss goodnight
to the lady bare, bear breasted and sleeping.

Kilburn by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, London, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


Sometimes, I think of Kilburn;
Wrestling the wreath, of an unnamed
Tree from Ireland.

We clamour to Kilburn,
Calling to past ways, pathways,
As spirits are tap’d out and sold.

And where would you be,
Kilburn? Catching the hordes,
The Gypsies, the More o’ers

Passing their ways, their trades,
Their songs “O’er The Fields,”
Sunny, no.

Which way to Kilburn?
West, is it ? I guessed it
Would head to that part

Of the unladen bird, where
It would take us; come with us

Patterned, we fashioned
An emerald and I’ll ask,
That one be put in your name.

The End Of Time by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


they came from the pipes
they came from the pipes-
each horn bigger and greater-
shifting and squirming-
the words we were forming-
meant nothing in sight-
when they came through the night-
they came in hundreds and tens-
mightier than men-
we huddled together-
and sang-
we sang-
did we sing-
they floated-
over chapels and rivers-
they floated-
they hundled before them-
two million they were-
passing and singing –
we screamed and we prayed-
you know what they say-
no point complaining-
it’s raining with killers-
they’;re robbing the children-
they’re dying.
passageways of decomposed-
and those who rose to fix them-
perplexed in their sights-
and held on-
rose on-
rode on with their wives-
in their thoughts-
plague covers the walls-
with its filth and its fury-
worried we'd change-
we called to a –
god unlistening-

screaming and crying-
dirt leaves us hanging-
spat out –
out out-
the dead.

The leaves are dying,
Not by the hand of Autumn;
But the lack of it.

Barren School by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
PhotoFunia-1591000525Barren School:
How cold bricks seem without people,

Dead to the outside, as paint dries,
From the walls that called boys to learn
And girls to speak Germanic pentameters,
Fanaticism in the pure form,

How strange to see a window empty,
Of life and board and chalk and song,
Longing to belong from the lips
That a generation chimed nursery rhymes
To Apple phones over synthetic hard drives.

How silent the rooms are,
The chitter chatter that nattered
A clatter tattered group
In Beatle lyrics and soul
Has died inside the spell.

Tell tale signs of age afallen,
A pupil’s hat stoolstand creaking,
Cobwebbing, weeping, peeping,
Stairwell cares of yesteryears
And don’t you dare’s.

This used to be a tome
To learn, to love, to find oneself,
Inside the pages of a favourite book,
Look, the shadow’s moved away,
Styling the staircase in darker traits.

Tales of Sodom by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


“I’ve douched” say I, clear in the head

that douche is a french verb, or so I’ve heard,

told to rinse you clean.

So he enters, bending further with

a warning; “size among size,

I’m on the larger scale”.

Fair warned, I take him,

Thrusting up to the point where it should linger,

but Dolores never sang for “the likes of us”.

Two pumps of agony, and suddenly we find ourselves in ecstasy,

Painting a silhouette where lovers are set on each other,

And I love this moment.

Breathing, I speak that I should kiss him,

And he listens, but I sense he’s not responding to the joy

I thought we had shared.

“Douching” he says; “It’s when a point of

excretion is free from

ignition- so wash!”

Hands held and carried,we shower each other,

Washing through dirt and through spit, it’s at this moment,

It couldn’t get better, and wetter we are, it’s

back to bed.


Wanking Off To Layer Cake

Hands off; looking for a smearing,

I fancy the jacket Craig’s wearing,

dressed to the fixes, shimmied out

in style;”I know you can shoot down

his Walther for his size”.

Hand on a wrist, we tickle and wrestle,

tied to each other to the beat of Danny’s

muscle. Edged on a luger, bullets in

the air; “you go in first, I like it down there”.

Two times prickled, three times pricked,

we turn back to the screen where another

gun is clicked. Black leathered gangsters,

walk around in swarms- how easy it must have

been for Matthew turning on.

He’s inspired by the lighting, inspired by the looks,

Sienna’s on a bedpost, Danny’s got her hooked!

We’re back in our positions, in the bottom ranks

we push. Hoodlums have stopped the sex scene,

but we’re ready with the push. I’m thrusting

in position, he’s pushing for the win. We smile at each other;

time to finish the film.

Metro Stop by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


PhotoFunia-1591000525Metro Stop


Metro stop, metro stop,

You buy your ticket, that´s your lot.

On the platform, in the rain,

Singing songs again and again,

Until you reach the faithful station,

With accordion players, the pride of the nation,

Playing tunes of yesteryear,

Asking for one euro for a beer,

And a sandwich, wrapped in foil,

As you think of this mortal coil,

And the earth at its end of life,

And further down, comes the red light,

The metro stops for just a second,

And people walk and forget to mention,

Where they´re going and what´s the time,

And will they be back for dinner at half nine?

Not at this point of their life,

Not when there´s much to see before the light,

Has died away across Spanish roads,

“Que pasa” is shouted at all of those,

Who walk and sit and smile and eat,

And listen to the rhythm of the street,

As the wheels turn round and round,

Soon we´ll be approaching solid ground,

And off we walk, three stops travelled sat,

And now to do my ´this and that´s´,

Walking down a plaza in quicker pace

Until another ride at the night´s near  grace.