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Darren J Beaney
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the poet
Darren J Beaney cuts his own hair and loves punk rock and Marmite. He's one half of Flight of the Dragonfly, which hosts regular spoken word evenings on Zoom and in Brighton, produces the Flights e-journal, and recently expanded into independent publishing. Darren is the author of three poetry pamphlets: The Fortune Teller's Yarn, The Machinery of Life and Honey Dew. His newest chapbooks – The Fall of the Repetitive Mix Tape (Back Room Poetry) and Citizenship (Scumbag Press) – will be published in spring and summer 2023.
the poems
I was created
without innocence
the philosopher named me
lazy love child
of tyranny. Conceived of invasion and rage.
At my birth historic dreamers clustered around
the womb only to wince
at the struggle. A foolish cleric anointed
my brow with sorrow, branded me
radioactive and resistant.
Nurture came with provocation
and accusation
as infancy turned
battlefield. Playful years
were slaughter and I grew
into travesty. Indignation matured,
associations curdled,
I lived life wretched.
I am little more than chronic,
my own enemy. I look to scald
the preposterous, denounce the bastard,
punish false evidence, destroy the offensive.
Now unbound
I seek a new heart. I am not
acquainted with angels,
but I believe
I am here to be loved.
Love
on acid
tastes like it looks
vivid chaos
blinding
shimmering
like sherbet
overwhelming with glycerin
whispers which vibrate
the air as touch
becomes hyperactive
and the world smells
demerara
senses
on acid
in love
warp and wrap
each other
into playful cat’s cradles
knotting until
rice paper lips
eventually
find a way
I like this place
and could willingly waste my time here
even though it smells of hospital
corridors
and the walls are balding as paint
decays
and plaster peels
and the brickwork reveals
clay intestines.
Derisory light pinches
though a ceiling sprayed
with holes
crafting a dingy prospect,
somewhere
suitable to commit crimes.
Window frames
nurse
broken panes
and a latch scalped
from a swinging door lies
like a fake island
in a lagoon of impossible
to dredge grime
covering floorboards all but conquered
by rot.
The air has a taste
resembling a cave,
the description clings to my tongue
as my mouth waters
like it’s a dripping acid bath tap.
I scrunch my eyes closed and catch
a smeared breath to stop me
taking a bite.
I perch, painted into a corner
by cobweb tusks.
I purge
with primeval ivy, flagellate
with waning lost feathers.
I whistle
like an uncomfortable outsider
looking for a sign
to relax
in damage.
I imagine …
and the obscurity of my thinking
invokes an alternative picture,
a chamber, a cell,
a byre, a stable.
An uninhabited room
in a tower
fit for young princes. I perceive
possibility and space. I tell myself
I make hollow history
as I waste each minute, but I snub
my meaningless words
and sing
to the shadows
'fuck off with your time'.
I consider
one more squandered hour
as I unwind.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb