writing reams of poetry in her head
on a Sunday morning lying in his bed
It rains against the window a perfect lazy day
she lies naked beside him
the most beautiful thing she
had ever seen with such colour structure and form
makes a second skin around him as he doesn’t touch
her
he picks up his phone to read
she turns to the wall to cry
naked beside him not a bit of him to hold
everywhere she treads she treads on glass
and every time he bleeds
she can read him like a book
but could not interpret him
blinded by illusion
she makes romantic gesture
gifts burned in suggestion
his need to hate himself
more passionate than her love
she lies
here spent beside him
with no more Yeats to give
Sitting on kitchen chairs
Like a cat powered dream all soft and slow piano fine
clocks and time running on rhythmic hops from topic
to thing
food pushed aside the hunger to feed ravishing our
minds
thought wordings that make you listen
ratcheting up the meanings feelings understandings
reaching flow into creative spaces nooks and crannies
not often explored in mundane conversations at cof-
fee houses pub street corners dinner or workplaces
deprived of sleep entwined as each day passes pus-
hes reality
entering cycle repeating topics like mantras chants
wobbling oscillating
steadying with tea being poured from Turkish pots on
the stove
puttering a rhythm through each day not sure where
it might end
sentiments wading through the ritual and sipping sitting
on kitchen chairs
moving to a living room would break the pulse maybe
killing the flow.
Not stopping for sleep is not a good idea.
Even if it’s great banter how does talk smell after a
few days
does it depend on each topic
mix it right to smell of rose or any other way
how sexy can an armpit be after days of maturity
but all of this gives way to the beautifully perverse mind.
Flashes in my soul as
part of a reality that
never was but always
is eternal and never
existing in the same
moment until now
feeling of romance
and yearning flow
like swells against me
and pulsing through
me removing me
from my here
momentarily to
experience
something that is you
maybe in this
moment exactly this
moment
fat fluffy bumble bees lazy around the hyssop and
lavender dancing with butterflies as they find new
suckling spots between the flowers and showers of
water from a hose voluptuous and furry coat pimps of
pollen diligently wasting time sucking on purple and
pink waltzing with elegantly painted skinny butter-
flies of beauty enrapturing, timeless, stealing thunder
from the sky no lightning to contort this moment no
rain to feed desires like the scene before me.
Colm Kiernan is a cultural worker from Ireland now living in
Sweden. He likes to use his emotions to paint pictures with
words. He realised early in life that no matter how much
he talked around a subject words didn’t have the power to
convey his feelings, being hampered by logical structures.
Kiernan’s poetry defines his inner self.
