my friend is a humble, strange, romantic genius. a lyricist of the heart.

Across my eyes it swept away

forever. A hard sand bottom

asleep amongst rainbows and dimpled pearls

every year

around this time.

Moon sliver grey sky silver blue

with open eyes and friends, growing and collapsing 

the deeps.

I’m tired of blue this year

this time.


Across from her and he and me and you of we.

I know you red Maguire, jasmine ancestor

strange romantic me.

Coincidence such

afoot behind my door,

heaven in spaces,

mist, to stars. In lungs

soaking in bests and worst

dispersed to even proportions

attached with perfection

as it is just then

instead of all at once whole.

Some young dog will get my eye,  my being,

being what it’s all about. Heaven in dust.


Crossed my mind - that door, that line, it’s ease.

Porcelain doll with open legs and an accent, in you

I could not come. And him and he, he kept on

and on with no familiarity, no taste 

we’re trying to dance, my god, my cock

my altitude in leaving, you crass romantics

miserable fucks. Depravity at it’s poles

as you fucked his girlfriend…


Do you think she remembers the music? Some summer months

and years away.

Little Paris she told me

on the slant down, both ways,

we were on the peak

balancing on soft cushions while I dragged my tongue up her thigh

and we fell

to burn our limbs on the floor

lick our wounds in tangled sleeps

till dark the next day.


This isn’t it. This time.

- j.mcdonough (2013)

Posted on October 15, 2014 .