Demented Fields

It’s poetry Ireland day today so heres a bit of an auld poem I wrote of a day

Demented Fields

Dreamless nights spent in fields
where women and roses stood in rows,
swaying passionate hips and leafy stems,
matching the lunatic rhythms of bass drums.
Horney women and fresh roses
fresh lovers and thorny petals stalking
topless men with hairy chests and
Protruding bellies hung over muddy jeans.

Nightmare sights of sweaty nights
naked behind scratchy hay barns with
passionate girls of friendly disposition
with no need for fancy ways or
drunken declarations of first love.
Huffing and puffing
Then coughing the fags smoke
Drifting from deep drags.
Waking to the dripping of cows spittle
on naked flesh. She too tired to care and
the bull aroused in some unusual way
staring upon entwined limbs and big breasts
and hairy thighs and my head pounding
not knowing her name and doubting my own.
Thinking she was crying until
The smile returns with flirting and touching
and not a worry for our souls salvation
or the forgotten words of old priests,
with drooping eyes and tactile hands.
The cows shuffle with milk
filled teats for the parlours suckers,
while my stomach tightens they watch.
The alcohol fog clears as she retires.
Cow shite and slurry lines flooding
make mouldy whiskey turn and churn.
Rising quick to pollute the green fields
of Saint Patrick’s holy land devoid of
snakes or any style of serpent other
than us ourselves and all the others.
Her sunflower dress filled tighter,
Her curves bigger in the light she smiles
wiping her luscious lips, looking for a kiss,
a hug and words I never learnt
I search for the iceberg to sink her deep
into some bog hole until I escape, once more
to the room inside where my own shadows lie

(c) Francie McGivney

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