Dominic Connell – Pylons


Abroad, I watched each nation that I drove through
parade its own mutation of the strawman theme;
the giant steeple ladder, coat hangers en masse.
a robot flying kites across a bypass,
the largest lit at night to ward off aircraft.

They flashed their constellations over autobahns
as I washed in from France, the game then little more
than seeing how far, door to door, a long weekend could last.
Due east to Eisenach, for one. Or south, Locarno.
You were the proverbial in my eyes back then

of course, as far fetched as the electricity
that races at our beck and call. Yet you
are the event against which change is quantified,
the benchmark for its worth and full extent.
The proof that every circuit finds its earth.

At home, the native cut-and-pasted model
impersonates a budget Eiffel Tower
as far as I can see. On autumn days
they sound like humming fridges from the hill where we,
because you’re here now, stop the car to trace a powerline’s
…………………………………………..          ……………..graceful curve.

Dominic Connell – Two Poems

Continuous Improvement

The stars have been corrected; from now on
all twinkles will be synced, repeat at non-
distracting speeds, and standard silver-grey.

And Spring will be induced on the last Sunday
in March each year, to normalise the yield
of joy from sunshine, birdsong, verdant fields
et cetera.

Tonight a pilot scheme
to monitor the contents of our dreams

If only I could recollect
what kind of dream might merit their inspection.

A minute’s silence

Stun your life and drag it to the tip.
Detach the past, your age, your name.
Give any opportunity the slip.
Tell your kids they’ll have to do the same.

Amputate yourself. Be just a grin.
Try scrubbing off imagined dirt.
Harbour petty hopes, then turn them in.
Train yourself to sleepwalk through your work.

Try to make the best of it. Succeed.
Realise how bad the best’s become.
Judge no one, taking note of each man’s deeds.
Resist the urge to reminisce. Succumb.

Get lost, then found. Forget what either means.
Suffer life. Consider being dead.
Aim at neither; loiter in between.
Stand the normal order on its head

then smash your head in. Smash the thoughts inside.
Obliterate the charm, the strange, until
the world as mud brown uniform collides
with where you are just now. Its bitter pill.

Dominic Connell lives in County Kildare and has been published in a number of journals including Magma, Envoi and The SHOp.