A Little Ink

by Poetry

nauseous & sick &
sick of it all;
dry prose – all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what
I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet
to drown us all with blood & sweat
& the drugs that slip
all from between …’s thighs
& to have each word moaning
for me moaning & each metaphor
like a second tongue in the mouth, pushing
the lips apart;

dry-heaving plot & narrative – the sweet
sick air: exposition, simple, dense, stifling,
nonsensical; stringing explosions together
like heavy methane or some congealing
life – nauseous now; sickened by the death of
sex & fire, all too common in dead cinema, poor prose & poorer
poetry; how could man and woman sink so low, that fire
& sex dull the senses? even murder is a stagnant thing &
doesn’t race the heart – at its height, death is a momentary
relapse for the living; a sudden revolution, until our bodies betray us
& our sheathed souls burst from our mouths;
our own mechanical hearts climb from our chests to
envelop weak skin in protective steel; all
we are – oily hearts hiding our meat & the crash
of iron footsteps on the pavement, carefully
irregular lest we realise the legions are on the march;

the death of meat & bone comes not in metal, it comes
in the lust for metal; the holy things leave the body & slip
the gown of technocracy across their breasts;
the meat knows, settling into the mould of steel cages;
the meat knows it is not unique but how can bone
puncture steel? once you’re iron, you’re iron

meat’s hope lies in meat; our iron needs to be prised
open & who walks around with a prybar, who
carries a hacksaw in their bag – who knows the weak points
in our hearts? & who can hold a prybar with any conviction
when their own hands are sheathed in metal gauntlets? meat’s grip
is weak & only lighter things can settle gently on a steel palm

meat & bone, or heart & soul, direct steel to paw
at breastplates, visors and more – all our love comes
to the screech of metal on metal; to the clang & clatter
of industrial accidents – all our love becomes today; minor
explosions & the howl of failing brakes

one day, someone will escape their exoskeleton
& I hope they show me how, that I too might burst
into the open air – naked & tearing the last of my skin
free from a metal heart I don’t recognise or
recognise too well
& if
I escape
with a little ink
& something wet to write
then years in a cage
might be worth it
after all

Free eBooks

poetry
poetry
modern poetry
Carey Poet
wigan poetry

A Cheap Black Rosary

when I wasn’t looking for a teacher
she arrived
with her casual blasphemies
wearing the crucifix between her breasts –
cheap, plywood, & with her sweat
the black dye trickled

Pygmalion

there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

Madonna

The mirror haunts me and turns my words to air, my love to grey light that starves, burns, screams beneath red-hot fluorescence. Madonna; can I pretend to love and know these love poems in my rotten pancreas? Can I pretend that this sudden obsession has the merest...

All These Words

And all these words are an act of vomit, of feeling the soul pulse in the stomach and spit; all these words like black bile raindrops on a white porcelain page And all memory of the moment is replaced with the aftermath, and the harsh pleasures of endless revulsion...