Fiachna Quinn is an aspiring artist, living in Galway, who singing voice is unbearable and thus left to transcribe his lyricism into poignant poetry. With history and interested in film, music, philosophy, and psychology he hopes to manipulate an audience into believing that all of the thoughts put foreword are of his own conjuring and not based upon thousands of years of excellent human experience.
I was told
would be easy,
they sold it
I bought it
down the street
wise to life
as a breeze,
of my teeth.
refused to believe me,
bruised denied relieving.
Took on a swearing roam.
Scared the children home.
Scored an ice cream cone.
Now my gums
and my brain
Sat all day in a misshapen box
One side beaten in, placed precise cut blocks
White and mould colours paint the limit
Torn curtain, speaks ill fitted
A room of my own tells me who I am.
A night stand stands working all day
Keeps my things hidden away
From all who enter to sleep or snooze
This room is a symbol I dare not lose.
Posters, boxes, clumps of dropped hairs
Wardrobe of colours fighting vanity mirrors
Shoes and socks, misplaced and forgotten frocks
Glittered sign reads ‘please knock’.
Double, single, queen sized bed
Dream journals, pictured parties had
From school children to morticians
Nurtured gently in homesteads.
A lonely fish kept very well fed
A right to our own often held
Came into, conquered or communist acquired
From protection into self-desired.
Wondering why I am so special
Sat in a space dedicated to my vessel
Everything fits and rarely talks back
Yet when things get added
I count all of that, of which I lack.
As I lazy around the room
No feelings without a curve
Night time mirrors
Foggy, forgettable, frighteningly irritable
The irony of not being able to sleep
Wasting food losing hair
I’m lonely leave me alone
Leopards lay about waiting to lose a leg
Stripy shorts make folding unnecessary