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On the Verandah - so this fucker was quietly drinking a whiskey the last of summer evenings...

so this fucker was

quietly drinking a whiskey

the last of summer evenings

In attempts to capturing sanity

with air signs dominating

homeliness and relaxation

with heart pounding

sitting on the verandah

in the dark sipping

having a cigarette

its allowed when drinking

the table had a candelabra

and a saw on it

mosquitoes with weak venom

were making themselves at home

for the night

the usual gang was gathering

a bashful buttock appears

soapy wet curved

with a woman

pail porcelain skinned

unravished by the summers sun

with it

guy sat up under the steps

listening

not saying a word

blood lipped orchid

peeked through the window

wanting to join in

even a tick saw potential

in the gathering

as it

clang to her arse

I have written this poem

over five days

five different ways

It’s a bloody brilliant poem

everyone shall love it

It has Bukowski

talking of whores

and cheap hotels

it channelling Burroughs

and the naked lunch

as suggested

by the Portuguese columnist

it was poison

she wanted to talk about

she was right

but the naked buttocks

had more to say than all of then

Hemingway said write drunk

he didn’t use a computer

the spellcheck is killing

my fabulous expression

the day began

with a poem being published

delighted I tried to talked to its editors

this shall be a writing day

I started with a big can of tea

organised documents

and spread the word

pottering around with a cup in my hand

I learned this form a professional

this is how to write stuff

how to write poetry

I did the washing

I washed up

I made more tea

I even oiled the steps that Guy was under

that took way more time

than expected

to do this right I needed to capture

my characters so

I went to Systemet the off-licence

I bought beer and whiskey

bought cigarettes

but really I wanted martini

ten cigarettes in and still not a word

I lied I bought martini as well

two and am on the second

It shall come to me

as ash covers the keyboard

If I do this justice

It shall have a Kafka ending

the snake scarers

have more chance

rhythmically buzzing

my thoughts

but I can only think of that arse

did I do it justice

and appreciation

I pulled the tick

and poured single malt whiskey

to cure the wound

it ran down the leg

to her foot

all the way down

with small splashes

on her bum

rubbed in for best effect

If I only had more in the glass

this moment would last longer




This poem was published in Golden Hour - Hora Dorada

you can buy it by send a message with your address to

colm@ciarnain.com it costs 12€ + postage

and on Amazon: Sweden - Spain - Germany - UK





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