“Fotografies, Senyor…” by John Doyle

My window cannot rest,
the thickened glass
carries crestfallen night;

it’s how you would expect it,
were a typewriter and some caffeine involved –
word for word, note for note –

the dental moon peering,
severed by the electric fangs of light
and the soot-cloaked clouds

bawling from feline stars,
yeah, badass shit is going down;
I wait for Philip Marlowe

to light up, then grimace from a still-healing rib,
watch his face dribble in
sweaty beads of rain.

It was the face I shone, Torrevieja, October 2012,
her smile lay precisely cut,
by glass that stole starshine from a roadside skip,

discarded near wardrobes, lovers’ bric-a-bric,
and the smell of scorched evening
as we shot cannonballs of pool.

The moon burned holes on felt
as we stopped to take photos on the highway home,
a little drunk, the stars seeing doubles of themselves,

a cop pulled in, tugged his pork-white gut from his belt,
Fotografies, senyor”
I said,

and like that the sky had swallowed his entire life whole…
Tonight, his limbs come falling
and her quartered smile

spits out his stellar teeth,
tonight, count the whiplash rain
and the snakes hissing on roads, Philip Marlowe laid out cold.

John Doyle
John Doyle Bio: The only good bio is a bio strung-up outside some gold-prospector’s wooden shack with his dog Jake sniffing at its last remaining remnants of sanguine flesh; So I will keep it simple, I’m from County Kildare, Ireland, and I love nothing more than stumbling across 3rd Division football games in Slovenia or Belgium on a Sunday morning as a welcome interlude while trying outsmart fellow bio hunters.

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