The Evils

August 28, 2016


Let’s make pastry, and gravy,
feed it to the dolls,
spoon it into Dorothy’s tight mouth:
watch her grimace, watch it cake.

Let’s sit them in front of Quatermass and the Pit
or the Wednesday Play
where that woman gets a gun shoved in her face:
Swallow this you bitch!

Her lips round the nozzle. And the gold fish
I didn’t mean to kill. My Brother’s pet
lathered up, placed in a jam–jar to dry.
And the stray he named Jupiter.

Yes, it could be from a star
or a planet full of cats
but swung by the tail it screams
just the same. Squeals for mercy. Helpless.

Kathleen Kenny

Kathleen Kenny’s poetry collections include Sex & Death (Diamond Twig), Goosetales and other Flights (Koo Press), Sandblasting the Cave (Flarestack) and Firesprung (Red Squirrel Press). Hole (Smokestack)


The book you kept insisting
you would bring
became a metaphor for promise.

It kept me in your thoughts
until you became so weary
you had to sleep

and dream of this man
with diseased skin,
a painter, exactly like you.

Taking the stairs two by two
you would bring him
to my room: all his images.

We would look at the book,
fingers up sleeves,
your blue chest warming.

You and I together
talk, talk, talking,
all the way to morning:

the dawning of paralysis.

Kathleen Kenny


April 19, 2010

He had love on his right hand,
hate on his left.

On her soft skin
his name was soon punched in.

It was Indian ink:
permanent and blurry

Kathleen Kenny