Long ago, it must be long ago, I have a photograph. The crevasse- wringled The winds of it. Died with it. There. Years ago, so much time ago, Clear out our memories. Behold the present.
The hair shall lay there, Josanna, Lay down the hairs of the hidden hearts. The stumbling blade of the tear eyed divers Ivories paced to the winter’s cold capering. Pictured himself in the mirror. Reflected. He shivered. And the hair shall lay, Lay there Josanna, in a mud mannered Compassioned cool air breeze. It is with me. It is in me.
Why If an aborted case Could make haste of the sense Sensualities jest of a tag Made bag boned brash Hashish smokes in a red raven sky The mutilated eyes are easily led He bled for Josanna. His blood in a forlorn cold shower Readied in an ungodly hour Where freedom rears her early flame By the name, his NAME, shall save, Purple. Purple we wore.
He stands by the crevasse, Cold in one hand. And. He’s gone.
Gone in a flash, dashed out, And raven cloth, he’s gone about.
Eoghan Lyng is a new Irish voice, who writes from perspectives Spanish, Czech, French and English. Samples of his work can be read at Outlaw Poetry, Vada Magazine, From The Lighthouse, The Medusa Review and Poets Reading The News. He can be found on twitter @eoghanlyng