The Cops Called at 4 a.m. Because I Was Playing Black Sabbath Full Blast by John Doyle

Brother groans into a street

of ash, of dust, of pine-green smog,

sister chases a priest

of cotton-smock, of impending rapture, automobiles

double-parked nowhere near them. Two people stand-out in this shadow,

they rub its surrounds, clean as a colonel's brass;

forgetful of their priest, they leave him dangling to his confessor

on that shadow's underworld,

a place gamblers hid cigars from, the children knew everything about,

these were days of wine and roses

in a movie theater every sweet Saturday.

How could I fit l'il ole me into their systems reports?

Two cops, brother and sister, called to my door,

4 a.m., me the immaculate manchild

playing Black Sabbath at full force ten.

I died some time before this went down,

death in hunchback muck

behind the condos,

Nescafe-coloured stone, windows heavy, bored sometimes,

the needle-poke finger held the tv button down,

horses galloped across California,

death a brand new millionaire

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.