Rabbi Mishnekoff tamed eleven wild stallions,
couldn't do nothing for the other nine,
twenty made a good round figure, now it’s two ones glued together with coffee-stove spit. All’s just fine.
Five of those nine horses turned
dust-prints into braille,
turned shooting stars into dingleberry wine.
I told so many lies about Rabbi Mishnekoff's daughters
God tore out my tongue -
sent me to the back of the line, soup-pot empty - bread-plate cracked like an earthquake
The Beatles almost flew into.
What if it's me who falls into that pit of snakes
and my hand reaches for him to save me,
a century ago?
I watched him hang like a wingless-jet (an hour ago) - lightning snapped the gallows like ice - wowzers, how nice.
Kimberley's sister was a strange strange girl
who lifted weights and had an uncle called Spiro.
She fell over quite a lot too. No-one knew why - it sure wasn't Parkinson's, maybe her compass had cracked.
Nothing ever happens in airports when you write poems like these,
Kimberley's Mom tells me,
except that Feds in pork pie hats run round like headless chickens.
Not many's a man can work
an inch-wide tie, I tell her.
My name's Sooz, what's about you? she says, snipping my Ace of Spades with her lawnmower blade, itching to try on my hat - mine? Oh, it’s Hercules, I tell her…
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.
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