Poem
Martin Mooney
IN THE PARLOUR
IN THE PARLOUR
IN THE PARLOUR
‘Every connection is a revelation.People I pierced and tethered secretly
always dreaded the giveaway clink:
now that’s all out in the open. Look
in the portfolio, towards the back,
for a picture of the man whose penis
has been sliced lengthwise, the two
halves of the glans like segments
of dusty purple fruit, pinned by metal.
You can’t see it but the gold
ends in an anus-ring. That’s his wife,
the skinhead Aphrodite overleaf,
her clitoris bound to her nipples,
nose and navel, as if she thinks
the insurrectionary body might break up
and break away, escape from itself
into a Balkans of erogenous zones...
In the last photograph they stand
face to face, chin to brow, the space
between them bright with chains.
Leaning backwards, they hold each other up.’
© 1993, Martin Mooney
From: Grub
Publisher: Blackstaff Press,
From: Grub
Publisher: Blackstaff Press,
Martin Mooney
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1964)
Martin Mooney was born in Belfast to parents of a mixed religious background, and grew up in Newtownards. He studied English and Philosophy at Queen’s University, Belfast. His first collection, Grub (Blackstaff Press, 1993), won the Brendan Behan Memorial Award and was made a Poetry Book Society Recommendation, as well as being shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection. He has...
Poems
Poems of Martin Mooney
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IN THE PARLOUR
‘Every connection is a revelation.People I pierced and tethered secretly
always dreaded the giveaway clink:
now that’s all out in the open. Look
in the portfolio, towards the back,
for a picture of the man whose penis
has been sliced lengthwise, the two
halves of the glans like segments
of dusty purple fruit, pinned by metal.
You can’t see it but the gold
ends in an anus-ring. That’s his wife,
the skinhead Aphrodite overleaf,
her clitoris bound to her nipples,
nose and navel, as if she thinks
the insurrectionary body might break up
and break away, escape from itself
into a Balkans of erogenous zones...
In the last photograph they stand
face to face, chin to brow, the space
between them bright with chains.
Leaning backwards, they hold each other up.’
From: Grub
IN THE PARLOUR
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