Everyone knew who Venus was,
a telegraph pole gliding on a lake
in Oriental sheets of fragrance and Apache sundown morse code,
hey tic tac toe.
Everyone knew her
save for the kids playing pool on Chooseday,
who stood in between the wires
looking for fish, firing alibis at the moon.
This is Saturday. Saturday the Nineteenth day of when.
I look at the unfinished world, the half-built planet
and God's plans for a lazy Sunday, lawnmowers, orange juice,
a postcard Venus sent from Eurasia. The stamp we soaked in water,
removed like a true-blue surgeon - it may be valuable.
Hanging up my coat, I ask my wife where Venus might be right now,
she gave me a phone number I recognised,
and the buildings across the sky
shook like little boys grabbing fish in their bare hands;
but it stung so much, all that petrol in the lake,
the words of failure wedged in a telegraph pole above,
with Venus filling her cheeks like a hamster
chewing words that by-passed the moon.
The moon had a postage stamp on it,
passing from galaxy to galaxy like a cotton-suited whore
a telegraph pole gliding on a lake
in Oriental sheets of fragrance and Apache sundown morse code,
hey tic tac toe.
Everyone knew her
save for the kids playing pool on Chooseday,
who stood in between the wires
looking for fish, firing alibis at the moon.
This is Saturday. Saturday the Nineteenth day of when.
I look at the unfinished world, the half-built planet
and God's plans for a lazy Sunday, lawnmowers, orange juice,
a postcard Venus sent from Eurasia. The stamp we soaked in water,
removed like a true-blue surgeon - it may be valuable.
Hanging up my coat, I ask my wife where Venus might be right now,
she gave me a phone number I recognised,
and the buildings across the sky
shook like little boys grabbing fish in their bare hands;
but it stung so much, all that petrol in the lake,
the words of failure wedged in a telegraph pole above,
with Venus filling her cheeks like a hamster
chewing words that by-passed the moon.
The moon had a postage stamp on it,
passing from galaxy to galaxy like a cotton-suited whore
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 enter.
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