John Doyle



When It Rains and No-One Else is Around

I mimic that previous moon,
whose drowning
was little more than murk-filled puddles
and longwave radio crawling up walls –
in wheezing lines of French;
I remember mornings after,
of exploding skulls and breath that seized
nations by their gut,
the clock stout and cherry-faced on my sterling wall;
there are lovers who never die,
they merely grow fat, and sit, and wait
for rains to fall; they recall
what little they held,
in their atlas-palmed grooves,
between pattering voice,
between an ocean of scowls –
and the moon knew everything, its lungs ready to burst; its spears are
rattling my mirror-ball again.




John Doyle, 41, is from County Kildare, Ireland. After a long convalescence from his battle with words, he returned to his old demons in 2015, and has since been published in Ireland, the U.K., and the U.S.A. He intends on forcing his first full-length collection A Stirring At Dusk upon the unsuspecting innocents of the world in 2017.

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