Animal Magnetism by John Doyle

Her cousins were the nicest folks I’ve ever met,
sheepdog the size of Norway,
a few ducks running wild,

when her 2nd cousin left the yard-gate open
and the horses galloped like thunder,
it was like they could read minds through time and space,

her eyes flashed like forked lightning,
her fists flapped like hurricanes locking antlers,
and a single colt cleared a buckled fence never to be seen again.


John Doyle is from County Kildare Ireland, or so he alleges; he finds poetry to be a therapeutic release from horrors he must endure every day, like television sets fat to their faces with celebrity chefs and cops shows, and endless wailing of neighbours’ children having overdosed on ice-cream. He is one year older than the age David Brent was when he said he was in his 30s.

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