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John M. Kehoe

John M. Kehoe is a writer from Canada.

Paranoid again

I’ve given up the dope but the paranoia remains:

all the guys giving fuck-eyes to my girl
voices speaking obscure (& frightful) truths in my head
friends eyeing askew the paths I can not yet see

and this all leads to:

my heart rapping quickly onto death’s door
every second of my life meaningless and stale
the alluring mind-numb of alcohol to kill my paranoia


Death by Clarity

There is a new light in this season
casting shadows even amongst
the sombre ruins of hours-long dusk

and in this novel dark-tinted glow
the habits of adults and children
are harmonized into ageless song

I hear it
between the branches of city stone
I feel it
encrust my skin as I step into the crisp light

and then I think
of all the words lost to my parents
by an inability to articulate

I was blind to the erosion caused by silence
but before this frothy light finally fades
I’ll be justly buried in song


Two Rhodes Scholars come to Chapters

Nevermind a genuine sympathy for the weak
or a sedulous glance cast between aisles for a championing read
or even a revolutionary prospectus scrawled on thin, tearing tissue
while politely breathing in a café latte and a raspberry scone

No, these thoughts are relegated to young, dawdling dreamers

But Our heroes, the wise Rhodes Scholars,
come to Chapters flooded with smiles and
disciplining charm, urged on by years of reading
and sacred childhood scares for a purpose:

Yes, these Rhodes scholars come to Chapters
to pick up chicks


To S—

the light,
which folds around this timid ink,
ends quivering and curving in
the camber of water
that is helplessly distracting
our sight

we, fooled,
share its weakness,
its failure to endure
the fullness of one day:
like the sky we get knocked
down onto acacia trees and
wait, pooled

for night
for that brief metamorphosis
that can makes us feel
whole and firm like the
boldness of this ink granting
us sight


We, the lovers, and Aphra

I exercise
my fingers
as worms
along the
loose
seams
of my lover’s
silk-worn
skin

from the nape
of her behind
along the plateau

of her thigh

slow-forming drowsy words
fuse our desires
of Aphra

we want her between us:
seeped into
my lover’s
pajama bottoms

filling the slack silk
with the pressure
of her skin

while I
continue
worming
my touch
along her
newly impregnated bulging
fullness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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