Hollyfuckingwood by John Doyle

For Carey Floyd

Another town
another atom bomb,
another station wagon,
another boy called Jody
sliced in half under its wheels,
another episode of the Flintstones,
another cousin with no face and no name
gathering the petals of her life
in an apple-green shin-length dress.
Another country singer's
head rolling down the highway like tumbleweed,
another Chevrolet mowhawked
by juggernauts driven by Chet
who tells his wife from a nearby phone-booth
he may be late for dinner;
Sgt. O'Malley waits nearby, Sgt. O'Malley
is polite and understanding.
Another rocket built by boys in nearby gardens
frightens horses drowning in technicolor illusions
and the memories of Randolph Scott 
once perched like Julius Cesar
on their spines,
another chief sits unconscious on the white-washed wood
of pretty 19th Century American construction and design,
another war is won by a smaller country
with smaller tits and smaller cocks
and not a single microbe or strain of Rock n' Roll music,
another Irishman who married another Irish woman
stands on the steps of the cathedral
in photographs of St. Joseph's 128 feet high 
and made of stallion-coloured stone and the immaculate
deceptions of priests with robes too loose and morals even looser,
another bullet kills another rusted can,
a different boy called Jody comes back to life
only to die again when another bullet backfires -
another day, another dollar;
Holly would, no she wouldn't, that's what all the boys said,
and the sheriff proud and tall in his pointy boots walked away;
his boys,
all of them;
gosh he was mighty proud

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your ente