“I’ve found the best way to revise your own work is to pretend that somebody else wrote it
and then to rip the living shit out of it.” ― Don Roff
"Gordon Connolly has lurked around poetry for years but it was only recently he has begun to publish his own poems. His first collection of free verse couplets entitled 'Snippets' was released in limited numbers to friends followed by 'I am only as good as other people say I am', 'Blue Ghost Afternoons' and 'Nepotism for Orphans'. Coming soon...Accelerated Intimacy, a new collection. |
Writers (like many artists) often become obsessed, for a time, with a recurring theme or motif. Over a two year period I found myself entranced by the notion of Blue Ghost Afternoons; "a languid time when the sun has relinquished control over the morning light but not yet marshalled the early evening light into an orchestra of shadows; a portal between the times.". - Inspired by Joan Didion's "Blue Nights". |
some of my poetry...
You were a stygian poison
inside of me, a dark sleep of midnight gardens, musky armpits filled with ancient snakes and unionised rats but you should rest in peace anyway, I guess? Two men kiss, prudes caterwaul, left wing millionaires
toss chicken bones, the matinee continues, a writer is sentenced to death, by social media, for using the N word, in a novel, set on a plantation, in the nineteenth century. The government confiscates my white socks. They let me keep my guns. I print my objections in 3 D, like blueprints, with sincerity. Lying in the carnivorous shadows
waiting for the still born blood to die counting sperm, discounting sleep, coveting everybody’s else husband and hating myself for it, hating myself. Centuries ago, in Salem, I was a tried as a witch
but convicted as a woman. They killed the witches, poured piss into my eyes from an acidic carafe made of my dead lovers demonstrative demolished heart and then they sentenced me to a life without love. Those witches had it easy. Men kill witches, they punish women. |
Unable to sleep I travel through dark hybrids of fiction
and fact, gathering unease, I wet the bed, listening to the rain. I die, heart failure, brake failure, it doesn’t matter, but death doesn’t suit me, so I return. I burn all my journals. What a fool I am. I never should have left. Nor come back. Sunrise on the lunar
surface; the majesty gnaws at the heart, the soul becomes, itself, a dying empire. Dark soon, none of it will matter. None. Ash falls/terrified of knocks on doors/we hide/ but from what/ no one knows. All our friends are gone/ the pot needs emptying/ I am scaffolding/ holding up your rewards/granting nepotism for orphans.
You lied there naked, a familiar, but a stranger. I recall
childhood summers spent naked, together. Your lips move, I want cancer or aids to come out but instead you say 'there’s someone else', lying? Cancer and Aids feel sorry for me. That’s when I know that nine hours from now I will cut off my ginger tinged genitals and feed them to a horny truck driver on the gridlocked A44, just before mourning, my last morning. |
"I have dozens and dozens of notebooks filled with ideas for novels and screenplays. The hard part is deciding which projects to devote time and energy to. There are always some poems that simply don't materialise in the way that I wished and so I shelve them, for now.".
"Always be a poet, even in prose." - Charles Baudelaire
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(inc) The BlueBerry Press & Leaflets in Print, Dial-A-Balloon.
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(inc) The BlueBerry Press & Leaflets in Print, Dial-A-Balloon.
Nodrog Entertainment Ltd., (inc) BlueBerry Studios.
All rights reserved.