Diptych + Hinge by Daniel Roy Connelly

(i) Fuck the crows, no, seriously, fuck the crows
(ii) Never a day with you have the dogs not barked white gold
diptych + hinge 160516

 

Left plate: morning

Fuck the crows, no, seriously, fuck the crows

With thanks to Keith Douglas

While my fingers can find the keys
how                 if not
they are neither dogs nor demons
but crows

flock to my throat
I bawl snot & dirty tears
is exploding everywhere
All you can see

think of raging forest flames
think of pissed-on canvas bags
think of ceilings
the walls turning black

when I howl that
rock me in your arms
clamps his open iron claw
the schism of flesh and bone

don’t mistake it for loathing
don’t think of me as if I’m listening
don’t say it will pass
don’t tell me what you see

 I will do my best to explain
why
bats nor devils
murder after murder

filthy feathers, blood-clotted talons
because hooded terror
behind my lines.
is the shelling of a face

with someone worthwhile surrounded
thrown over a startled head from behind
creaking just above the bed
razor-winged shadows peeling away

the tempest is not over you
whenever the flagellant Rook
to the belly of my brain look beyond
anguish has left behind to rot all day

it is depression; a vile phrase
war is on all sides of myself
when passing is present continuous
just put it down to mental health

 

Hinge

I didn’t ask
for this it’s
just that I live
today so it has
a name this swin-ging
back and forth
plus there’s
pedigree.
Most of the
time the osci-
llations are
manageable
but once in a
blue while the pendula
break
serried ranks,
disturb the
careful
chiaroscuro.
Someone
needs
to take a step

up

to hold the halves
together like my father before me
his mother before him
and so on
down the
frac-tious
line.
I conclude
it is an honour
to be asked to
make amends
in this most
low key of
ways, to play
the simple
two-way pivot
of my own bi-
polar days.

photo-1442407764823-a91dd726a7f2

Right plate: evening

 

Never a day with you have the dogs not barked white gold

As a songwriter, the only thing I really do is make
jewelry for the inside of other people’s minds
Tom Waits

You wrap a mangalsutra tight around my cerebellum, spritz it with the
golden glow of headlamps in the rain, clip earrings ripped from drunk
Vaudeville names either side, swinging like signs in dirt-track movies,
of my corpus collosum.

Romeo’s an amulet strapped to Mathilda’s amygdala, a slick-as-
swordfish Messermeister knife grooved by his love over white-gold-
encrusted tragi-comic Veronesi mini-masks from the studio of the
Dead-Spit Puccini Twins. The platinum tie-pin Eyeball Kid won in a
bet with Frank Sinatra brags a real pretty diamond piercing my
medulla oblongata.

The hemispheric curtain folds its drapes, silent as one-eyed snakes.
Behind, fancy-neon-lit-hoodlums drop in to check the space. It’s
almost like Imelda Marcos has come to stay, but that’s okay, move
along, boy, move along.

Head of the pin, view of the ocean, my cerebral cortex flashes our
refulgent wedding rings bashed out from the flanks of a ’53
Oldsmobile.

You let fuzzy Uncle Vernon choose the wallpaper but I forgive you.
Your master jeweller’s ear for gold and tattoo-parlour eye string an
evening of dazzling calliope through my cranial Versailles.

Daniel Connelly

Daniel Connelly

Daniel Roy Connelly was the winner of the 2014 Fermoy International Poetry Festival Prize, a finalist in the 2015 Aesthetica Magazine Creative Writing Prize and winner of the 2015 Cuirt New Writing Prize for poetry. Published widely, his poems appear in the current editions of The Moth, Acumen, Critical Survey and as part of The Good Men Project. He is a professor of creative writing, English and theatre at John Cabot University and The American University of Rome.
Daniel Connelly

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