Z by John Doyle

Theatres are beautiful places,

as are cinemas, public parks, 

places boys who look like David McCallum wander in,

parents - backs twisted to the water-soaked sun, 

chat their morse-code chatter,

a caffeine mirage playing their own games, of death and life, 

darkness, light - where suddenly

the alphabet drops the symbol of sleep on their game - 

a theatre of the absurd,

the obscene, the final flash - Z - jagged like a fisherman’s hook, 

hacking lives from

helpless shoals in simple afternoon seas. 

Zzzzzzzzzz… we all go to sleep - nighty night Andriy, 

на добраніч Anichka.

Theaters are beautiful places, cinemas, public parks,

last night was Chaplin season, he was a good man Charlie Chaplin,

he saw everything come, all of it go - 

silence turned to sound like Jesus turned water to wine,

man turned to beast - like a clerk becomes a lion - 

not the soul of Judah,

not the heart of Narnia, a wicked bag of rags takes their place

at the end of the alphabet, soon whimpering home to his Uncle Joe,

no sleep to come, no captions pouring zzzzzzzzzzzzzz 

from the smoking holes of his face;

just tanks for the memories, brick by brick, bone by bone, soul by soul, 

growling at his noose-swung mane, no resting place for the wicked

 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.