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Darren J Beaney



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

00:00 / 01:03

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.                                   


00:00 / 00:30

                                    on acid

                                    tastes like it looks

                                    vivid chaos



                                    like sherbet

                                    overwhelming with glycerin

                                    whispers which vibrate

                                    the air as touch

                                    becomes hyperactive

                                    and the world smells



                                    on acid

                                    in love

                                    warp and wrap

                                    each other

                                    into playful cat’s cradles

                                    knotting until

                                    rice paper lips


                                    find a way

I like this place

00:00 / 01:48

                        and could willingly waste my time here

                        even though it smells of hospital


                        and the walls are balding as paint


                        and plaster peels

                        and the brickwork reveals

                        clay intestines.

                        Derisory light pinches

                        though a ceiling sprayed

                        with holes

                        crafting a dingy prospect,


                        suitable to commit crimes.

                        Window frames


                        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


S h a r e

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