John Doyle is originally from County Kildare in Ireland, now based in Dublin. He works as a magazine reporter, and has had eight collections of poetry released since 2017. He hopes to have his first novel released this year. His favorite word is “fink”, and his favorite phrase is “we’ll head them off at the creek, you saddle up some fresh horses”.

Working People Go Home Every Evening in Belfast

I am like a drop of water on a rock… Rigoberta Menchú Belfast’s middle-classes control a section of highway that remains steadfastly neutral, football stadium roofs remain isolated from words, thoughts, sinful deeds that may send us a time-capsule we formed a human-chain to keep buried - in perpetuity. Working-classes check messages on mobile phones, on railway lines clicking their purpose into jigsaw-pieces of city-scape mountain-side used to keep under lock and key, messages that tell them illness has passed, illness has come, messages yet to be seen in cars that pass on roads that know better than iron-horse relics, swimming in the sonic sermons of evening’s promise, on waves and waves the skeleton dug into the mountain proclaims. Everyone in Belfast knows this, me a stranger who listens from purgatory, not too pushed about that green, orange, and stoic-red that slows me into all their collages To Be in Japan Wednesday : 11:39pm, a day hands profundity, peace, on its way to forever. NHK documentary features a man of many ages living many times in many aeons, cycling bootcut streets to his rewards - obedient dog, galactic radio-wave inquiries, rest, solitude. If men lesser than time and space stood outside their dutiful wisdoms, if men greater than howling clocks and vicious asteroids stood beside him in prayer - dowsing sunsets, then I believe we may not have these times at all, to make it on the path to midnight, make other worlds, other days of erudite tornados, foolish drownings. Something else made its way up bootcut streets, something time hands over to forever, sealed like state-secrets, forbidden to generations. The ledge measuring all and more he hands me as I drift on Thursday's galactic psalms, mourning closedown does not occur to me - closedown slipped away on a kind, grinning asteroid


23rd birthdays are seen as miracles now, seeing this great disease catch the breath of Mother Earth. Another disease re-appears - from the breadth of a once-roaring bear. Mother Earth, your boy of fluent tongues hears it too - that you are bleeding. Making 23 summers seemed like little to us, music we'd die for back then leaves us little but shame, but then - we have at least 24 more to reflect back, remembering when - and which ears were to blame. Rory’s songs are shrapnel chords shredding down the scales of flat and heartbroken towns, Heartbreak Hotel boarded-up and War Pigs suckling from Volga's festered nipple. Long past 23 we’ll sit Tolka-side, watching sun's resurrection make his song Mother Earth’s eternal ripple; the breadth of her ceaseless lungs widened - by the misneach from hisViolet The true militant suffragette is an epitome of the determination of women to possess their own souls Emily Davison St. Andrew kindly handles lonely soil after poor John Clare forgot where he’d left his pen, though poor Violet we're told had something rotting in her soul, not something Mother Earth had implanted, no-one knew where, no-one knew when. When that window smashed, nothing was left but a gash our brave-brave men cowered as an ill Duke's powers granted mercies to our Violet there and then. Oh how grateful we are, her hysteria won't spread near and far, give her to St. Andrew's loving arms - who’d nourished poor John when he left the farm - St. Andrew vows to keep Violet safe - from further harm; that silly girl who brought shame and alarm, means Europe must show some pride and lock-up those from far and wide - those different ones the master-race must now seek to hide. Silly silly little girl.


It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe
Bob Dylan, 1975

Barbie's beautiful lover-boy bleaches everywhere 
south of the border,

Yul Brynner's missing manhood sits on top, 
conquest complete, 

Barbie's not feeling herself today,
loverboy's fingertips sawn in half by magicians hired by the mob.

Ben's to blame, who'll stand up, who'll call him out?
Ben's a big-talker, sidewalk-stalker, 

Ben inside his New Hampshire nest hands you diamond rings, hands you potions and spells,
when all you wanted from Ben was to know someday you’d be loved.

You ever wonder if he noticed -
that now he blows so hard, the smoke's coming out of his own ass?

Barbie's down at the post-office
writing people she wants to dislocate,

Barbie's sent a telegram to Ben,
telling him to send that alimony alibi

in crypo-currency
instead of sending it twenty years too late -

Ben’s on his knees
cleaning that smashed-up priceless vase,

it’s from the William McGonigall Dynasty
he says, another potential client burning smoke on their heels

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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