Making Love In Bach by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Making Love To Bach

And you’re wearing his dress again,

Ten times promised to restore

And mirror your body

In another man’s wardrobe.

You’re sensing his face again,

Ashened the cigarette butts, curled

Unassumed ceremoniously dumped

On a fairground’s chamber,where

We made love to Bach.

I’m sensing you’re not tired of him,

You’re missing him, Touching him,

Tasting him, lingering for the way he holds

Your hair, selfishly, solemnly, stood

By the leather clad clothes he wore on

The day he saw my reflection.

Is it worth projecting, or protecting,

The secrets we hold, for a whole

Other, rather, sparkling adulterous case,

Apropos to purpose, I habit

Myself in the arms that wish to

Leave me alone.

Eoghan Lyng


Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Eoghan Lyng


By Eoghan Lyng


I laughed at your jokes in times of doubt,

My wallet your friend when down and out.

But yet you care not for my stances,

Favouring idealistic, false romances.

Can you not see behind your lies?

The truth has made you paralysed.

Speed jive and petrified,

There is no truth behind those eyes.

Fare thee well baby blue,

My regret things failed to pass.

We never found our curfew,

Love is a thankless task.

Achilles by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, We Are Cult



I: The Lovers

A flower,

She brought one,

Specially picked for her love.


Many a time,

Brought them together with love.

They harvested a garden.

Sheering carnations, conventionally

Catering colours.

A flower,

Flourishing favourites,

Airports feel infertile without


II: The Strike

Political purveyors prolong paying,

Parachutes passively picturesque playing,

Painfuly punctually paused pugnacious,

Persist passers pass passive persistence.


The bodies, I recall,lined in a queue,

The bodies reflected o’er survivors, they few


Catered conditions call cognition,

Conflicted co-ops cooling conditions,

Cancer collected come cold commision,

Changing conceptions craving compassion.


A baby birthed in airport’s green flames,

A baby birthed engulfed in war games


Fearless fanatics finds fallow fee,

Famous forensics faced fractures flee,

Facilitate, flogulate, freer, foregone,

Festering feasts fall from foot-ons.


Low lie, the flames of Athenry,

Low lie, the flames of Athenry


III: The Telegram




IV: The Mourning:

Through winds they called him,

And windswept, he left the

Surrounds that unfounded him.

Breezing in the meadows,

Over seasoned beliefs would hold him

Handled boundary-less, a bell rang through the courtyard,

The dimming light led these friends through nights,

In a dreamed of world returned.

The river flittered in waves,

For a hunger still unsatisfied,

Adventures on a road gone many times,

With friends, a dawn rose reddily,

And merry were the friends,

Who held their hearts with hands,

Friends who began to listen to winds,

Winning him back for one more night.



V: The Folklore:

Richie,James, it had all been the same,

So said the man with the bomb.

The nuclear strike struck out the sky,

Red was the colour gone wrong.

Guns filled the air, didn’t they dare,

To walk into the God fearing light sun,

Asked would it end, sang now and then,

As they struck, BANG, they were gone


VI: The Report:

The Akles Monitored the machines-


Positions: Down.



Body Count*

Destruction: Productive.

Gas Light: Eminent

Power: Negative.


-Collar bone, owner Fido.

-Matchbox. Boy, aged five.

-Fleece. Brozen zip.

-Petals. Fingers attached.


VII: The survivors

Paris is pretty to peer in the red light.

A gas on the tower is eating the flowers.


*(Too Red)


Thoughts From A Cracked Window by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

between the bickering and the tolling terrible tales of an old fabled magistrate masquerades as a person I ache to be

picturing a pleasantry possibly perplexedinjecting a sidewalk talks of a cold caught flu that I hide from you and I hide from sickwhat with the falling pound parading on these cobbled pathways and I say, I could do with more

what with a war starting and a charter looking to accept the walls I hold as my own, very own.

it´s a nice day all the same.



Two Poems from Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Home Thoughts From An Airport


Fingers twitched wayward queue.

Will you, won’t you stand.

A fair tree robin sits,

Geared ennui sets in.

Tolled bag carries counters,

Complete suites arise,

Hoteliers and auxiliaries

Teary eyed say goodbye.

And I walk onward,

But back. Turn over the heaviest

Of ruck-sacks complete with a Ulysses

Fiction from home.




There lies a flower,

Flooring the phallic phenomena,

Pasteurised in polemic patterns,

A paradise cooled.

Uniforms unifying underlying,

Tick tick ticketing the fumbling noise,

As a flower fulminates asleep.

Folded planets figuratively feathered.

Angling aimlessly upwards.

Foursome the foresome forces the fierce

Farcical foundations fantasised flowers

Algernorn asked in the literary form

Forms the fantasy we find.

And in this flower fantasied

Fancies me, formulaic probability,

And I catch the flower,

Caressing, pressing,

Our petals professing,

Profering, coughing,

Infantalised offerings,

Pagantries tepidly tyrannies

Tepidly, triumphantly

Ties to the sovereignty.

What was the flower, fine flower,

Where was the flower, fine flower,

Faced fulgent flower factorised,

Penalised, foliates focalised.

Flowering fidelities fascinatingly focused,

And now its undressed.


Wines and Walks by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
Wines and Walks
Wine lies on her fingertips

The red silhouettes her breast
Addressed, to her lover so much
Younger than she.
Needles wheeling the pillowtip
And it slipped, the sharded glass
Cutting the finger form, and of it
Crashed the blood.
Many a man has loved her,
Many more tried, trying too
Hard, too little, too patient
Too cold.
Older and wiser the man arrives
Crying his hands to the heart
Of a lover who mothered him
In the cold Irish night, to the cold
Latin heart.
Monies he left her, cushioned
By longing, belongings becoming
A period’s strain, the chains he called
By a friendlier name, now shattered
Walking the broken pathways.
Eoghan Lyng

Buggery by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine

“My name is Roger. I’m a fan of The Beatles, the movies and being mercilessly sucked off from time to time”. Roger was a good looking chap. Brown haired, blue eyed, six foot two. He had a nice face, and a nicer arsehole.

Stephen looked him up and down once or twice, downing his stout with vigour. There’s little in life worth celebrating, except the virtues of a mouth placed very firmly on a person’s manhood. Elegantly placed, beautifully positioned, it’s as if God himself wanted people to placate this item very firmly in the centre of their lips.

Stephen had only allowed himself to down another man on three occasions, once for recreation, once for reasons other than recreation and a third occasion to show he was very much a man in every manner possible. Would a fourth occasion prove the tipping point to complete homosexuality?

Stephen paid for the drinks, then shuffled to the door, holding his compatriots hand in the hope of continuing their illuminating conversation back at Roger’s apartment. They walked together, under a pale dark moon; a little too romantic for the everyday cynic. Stephen had little time for romance. All he wanted was renumeration.

Money is the key to happiness, happiness is the key to life. Whether a favour had to be given orally or physically, Stephen had the passion and tenacity to deliver. Being a penniless poet was not the wonderment Oscar Wilde had talked about. Dear old Oscar.

“How old are you, my dear?” Roger asked. “Twenty five”. “Enjoy it. The age will take away your looks”. Stephen chose not to ask his partner his age. He seemed a man of advanced age, facing fifty years or so. He was an Irish man, another one. Why was it always the Micks?

“What part of Ireland are you from?”  “Cork.” Stephen’s hometown was a source of great pride for him, placating his problems with images of St. Finbarr’s Cathedral and the local University. “Cork. The Rebel County. But no Dublin”. A Dubliner. Shady bollocks”.

They traversed by Roger’s apartment on Carters Road, a quiet place. A haven for blacks, dogs, Irish and queers. Roger rummaged through his pockets for his keys, finding them under a profelactic he undoubtedly was saving for Stephen’s anus. In every man there’s a darkness that they wish to unleash on the world. Some seem satisfied by merely finding the time to dispense their energy on pretty Irish boys!

Bill Cosby’s favourite pub ‘Monkey’s’ was indication of his lifestyle. Marxist long jacket wearing bohemians cornered the pub with vigour, each happy to give their thoughts on Leninist policies. The Labour Candidates often arrived, in the hope of sympathising with the more open minded of the radical wing. The local Labour candidates rarely found as much time to dedicate to the members of their constituency as they did to their pints.

Stephen Doherty walked in, a bread roll under his arm. Acknowledging Cosby’s presence, Stephen pulled himself a chair.

“What’s your story?” Cosby stared at him. “Seven years living in London and you still maintain the Paddy act.” “Better a Pad than a phantom”. “Phantoms don’t carry sawn offs or blow up the Dorchester”.

Stephen’s brow raised. “I have my own fuses to sort before I light others”. “You never lost the poetic quality”. “Now that would be funny”.

Cosby laughed, his Guinness leaving a foam around his, admittedly, impressive moustache. “You left that side behind you a long time ago, Steve. Now I never see you anymore, save to drink away your misery”.

Stephen replied “My ambitions were realistic. I wanted to write poetry. You wanted to kill capitalism from your daddy’s pay cheques”. “My father, arsehole, has not spoken to me in eight fine months, and they have been the finest of my life. Leave the theatrics behind and tell me about your week”.

Stephen’s chianti arrived. Even before its arrival, he could hear the men at the counter scoffing at his lucid taste for finer types of alcohol. Too good for stout they thought.

“I’ve been able to pay my rent, after such a long period. Benny was tiring of my antics. I rang my Mam the other night too.” “How is she?” “Not the same since Da died”.

Cosby stared him harder. “Jen?” Stephen darted his eyes; to acknowledge the question would be futile. “Will seems well. He sent a postcard last week”. “Where is he?” “Derfordshire”. “Finance?” “Accountancy”. “Nice man all the same”.

Cosby’s sneer perpetuated him a fraud and a vagrant, a communist of celluloid villainy. His thoughts on women senile, his knowledge on economics laughable. His idea of Germanic bohemia stemmed no further than glasses of lager.

“Harry, I have to leave.” “I understand”. Stephen’s nebulous attitude left a nasty feeling of Harry’s inadequacy. Harry wandered the house, his eyes gawking at every hole, stove and cupboard he could lay on. These homosexuals knew how to litter a place and make a guy feel comfortable about themselves.  Comforts of comforts old and favoured, enraptured behaviour is largely unsavoured. It only takes ten seconds to suck in, to breath downward and to make it really, really tick. It’s not the nicest of tastes, take it from us, but it takes you to that point that you want to go to.

Bugger. Bugger. Not something to savour, whenever, wherever.

Eoghan Lyng

Sibylline by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Salman says “mercy is the key,

considered as we are in the fun

filled folly of polemity”.


Solemnly, I answered his call

And all I found were the warring,

Tolling shades of the pastoral bells.


Through hell I waved, a man

made flag gave the empire’s

pleasantries of insidious severance.


Masking the honesty, where were we,

in this civilised waged battle

after the fact?


Cooler the colours changed through

the book that I read that said an ending

I felt close to the nail.


She kissed me indomitably

holding the feelings fearfully

fighting the Dublin paged rain.


Liturgically lit literary

paging passive puisantly

changing conditions contracted.


Sibylline streets, as lovers meet

closing the books that they read.

Eoghan Lyng

London by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

London. It`s a city of dreams. Whether those dreams are those of luxury or poverty depend on your circumstance. Patrick certainly thought dreams were meant for waking up from, not looking forward to.

Patrick lived in a hollow flat situated at the end of the Clapham Junction Railway Station, in a sodomised world of contempt. His lover, Michael, was the type of Irish bugger who made the Fianna Fáiller`s quiver and the Vatican churn. It was 1966. The age of The Beatles, Warhol and anal sex. Their time was coming.

Dominic Greene arrived at the door carrying nothing but a small case of things. He packed his toothbrush, toothpaste and pyjama`s in the case. Finishing off the final norsel of his banana, Dominic composed himself for the interview.

Patrick opened the door. “You must be the new tenant” he said knowingly. Dominic stared him down. Patrick was ordinarily handsome, his dark hair and brown eyes made him a plausible target. Dominic smiled. “That I am” he replied. “I am here to pay the first month`s rent”.

Patrick nodded to the sandy haired bloke. “Welsh, are we?” “Aye. Hollywell.” Patrick frowned to the man. “I was hoping you`d be Irish”. Despite a three year stay in England`s capital, Patrick`s fondness for his native country never left him. He always had a special place in his heart for his beloved Cork. Welsh simply could not compare.

Dominic wistfully shied away from the door. “I`m sorry” he said. “My mother has Irish in her”. Patrick smiled. “That`ll do me. Come in”.

Michael rocked from the edge of his chair. The air of semen was palpable. Dominic`s nose turned at the sensous dicothomy. Bloody queers. Always the bloody queers.

Patrick turned to Michael. “Don`t bloody stand up, while you`re at it”. Michael scoffed. “No fucking intention of it.”

“This is our new flatmate”. “Great. As long as he washes himself, I`m happy.” Patrick laughed at the thought. Michael was the dirtiest, sleaziest vehement he had ever met. Still he paid on time. Patrick didn`t.

Patrick turned to the tiny ceramic stove that protruded his kitchen. “Tea, Dominic?” Dominic took off his Ray-Ban`s to answer. “Yes, please”.

Patrick smiled to Dominic. “You an Audrey fan?” “What?” “You a fan of Audrey?”

Dominic`s perplexed look gave Patrick another opportunity to laugh at the Welshman`s ambivalence. “Audrey. Audrey Hepburn. Those are the Tiffany glasses. Breakfast at Tiffany`s”. Dominic re-examined the glasses. “I thought these were the Goldfinger glasses. You know. Bond. James Bond”. Patrick smirked. “You`re more of a tea cup than Sean Connery. But no matter. Here`s your tae.”

Turning to the ominous picture of the Virgin Mary, Patrick chanted “Go méirimid beo ag am seo arís!” Dominic sipped his tea. The fields of Wales and all its glory were there in his thoughts. The sheep. The dragon. The mines. But as he thought about the gaelic uttered, he considered how little Welsh he actually knew. Not that this mattered in London. Patrick spoke.

“I`m not going to lie to you, muffin. We are a pair of homosexuals. If that`s not good enough for you, frankly, you can fuck off. But I`m sure you`ll get around to the idea”.

Dominic could. Patrick was satisfied.

“Now, Dominic. Tell me about yourself?”


Patrick walked to the nearest shop, his feet steady,his mind solemn. Why did he tell everyone he was a homosexual? There`s no harm in admitting you`re giving sexual favours to your masotistic housemate to avoid embarrassing debts. The truth was, Patrick was far and away from a homosexual. And he knew it.

What about Genevieve? Where was Genevieve in this gregarious city? Had it been a year already? Genevieve. Genevieve.

Eoghan Lyng


Televised by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Non-fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

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.
Eoghan Lyng