337 St Jeremiah's By John Doyle

Where that actor hid from photography's blitz and sank all that vodka, 

not a dribble belonged to him,

barefoot and sudden near pulled-up cars,

it had been 24 years since he'd experienced those out of body blues,

straight-up rye has that kind of zen

at three three seven St Jeremiah's,

where I believe I found a poison to eliminate the cure

a spider spent a sparkled penny singing though his blood

hanging on the alibis of his Communion wafer moon,

that photograph of Dennis Wilson, backstage at Fleetwood Mac, 1981

came to frame me in another soldier's war, lost between two hurricanes

I chose a typhoon for my symphony,

closing three three seven St Jermiah's behind me 

I turned to watch sunset

telling lies to a moon not yet consecrated, 

realized no-one has these kinds of dreams

unless they've slept for longer than they tried not to be awake,

who amongst them dared to breathe the dangerous hours of twilight?

bones behind a miracle first to sweat 

when the chirping crickets warned the devil 

to bow down his head - he knew he'd lost it all that day 

he'd left behind his door to door sales position.

Three three seven St. Jeremiah's would never be condemed,

no-one in a face without any sideburns could ever find it on their maps

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.