Demon dogs howl at the moon’s rise.
The room is readied with incense of
Frankincense and myrrh.
Have the angels fled?
A shadowy figure moves slowly;
The grass is scorched from hooves
Of the called.
As the devil thrills a captive audience,
With his splendid playing of the violin.
‘Such gusto! Bravo sir!’
— How the fires are stroked.
Such glow cast upon faces.
‘Care for a margarita?’
To watch the burning
Of the Testament.
For the poet hasn’t arrived yet with a rebuttal. Dare he try?
He lays at the Devil’s
Feet— like a faithful dog.
The crowds dance like mistresses
To music of the Devil’s symphony.
Have the angels fled?
The sounds cascade down their writhing bodies- The fiddle has them captivated.
It’s inside them/possesses them.
How they moan...
In a dream-like state, the music of the Stradivarius wraps its trilled embrace round me.
The angels have fled.
Happily Ever After
In this house of ours,
We (you) picked out
The new wallpaper in this
Sitting room of silence.
The pictures on the wall
In the hallway near the door
(Which once promised freedom)
Seems somewhat... incongruous,
To what the separate bedrooms entails.
Two unfulfilled souls in their
Own Les Misérables.
Frowns, sighs and shrugs
Are reiterated daily.
From blossoming beginnings:
You’re so lovely!
Ah stop, I’m blushing!
To the happily ever after of:
Did you put the bloody bin out?
Where’s my socks?
Hedgehog Poetry Press (c)
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Robin McNamara2 poems by Robin McNamara : New York city ain’t you just so & Holy Fires of Religion
Some bastard politician’s account Died on Twitter / dystopian life is here. Crowd-provoking sensationalist gossip On the holy grail of social media. In the big city where lonely women With wanton lust orgasam to The capitalist designer gear. They label your life and bring greed To the table. Synthetic families gathering/unraveling. What the fuck was a nuclear family. You’re stuck with me. I’m stuck with you. Sociological reasoning has gone underground.
Downtown streets with one dollar stores, liquor stores and bums on every corner. Kosha Dillz a Jewish rapper in a red suit, Downtown Manhattan— rapping, The cops are nodding, the dollars are dropping. New York ain’t you just so.
Whoosh! of the underground train throws Hot city air across my face / Baby face doll gives me a wink across the Platform. Maybe we’ll meet later on tinder. Hot holy hell the devils kitchen On a summer Fire.
Wailing sirens and screaming poets Unknown artists dying in rat-infested Apartments with blackened fingers bleeding From scratching out a living. Cosmopolitan studios two doors down Selling a fucking banana taped to the wall for Six figure sums.
Smiles behind masks the streets are hiding a Danger you cannot see, covid comes to Broadway. A new musical playing at a person Near you. Ride the subway through the tunnel / smokers Cough eyes to the right gotta get off the next Stop walk the miles taking no chances.
Gucci mannequins are all dressed up nowhere To go. Cops are loitering waiting for a crime in Times Square, it’s a bust. Jazz nights at the Blue Note & cocktails at The Dead Rabbit a fantastic light waiting To be switched on again. Allen Ginsberg’s ghost is howling again We’re all in Rockland.
Holy Fires of Religion
And when you go and pray
for compassion with the gossipers
within the holy walls of God
with all the other Harlem folks,
clapping and dancing in Jesus's name;
the hollowed out eyes of the Lord
looks down upon you all.
In wooden silence, hands out as if saying:
“have I come to save this?
Did my father forsake me for this?”
Father / preacher / reverend / holy man,
Reading from a book of legend —
where are the poems within your hearts?
Where are your words against
the fire and brimstone —
that smelt the gold for your crosses.
Where are the poets within your scriptures?
It’s true; that those were your words
As weak as moonbeams
To light a fire of dawn.
In Devil’s darkness
In the woods.
Colours faded to Monochrome.
Holding the urn of a poet’s ashes.
A riderless carriage passes on by.
Sandpaper of Shame
I live in the skeletal remains of you. O city.
My ancestral ghosts blow across the quay.
My soul folds into recession. O God.
Welfare Nation scrapes sandpaper
Of shame across my face. O Hell.
Locked shops, become commercial coffins.
I fold into the couch in oblivion. O pity.
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Robin McNamara
Robin McNamara has over 145 poems published worldwide in America, Canada, Ireland and in the UK with Versification, Pink Plastic House, Daily Drunk, Full House Literary Magazine, Dream Journal, Second Chance Lit, Literary Heist & Ephemeral Elegies. A regular contributor to Poetry Ireland and Black Bough Poetry poetry prompts. Robin’s forthcoming debut chapbook, Under A Mind’s Staircase, published by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK is available to purchase now at: https://robinmcpoet.com/