by Poetry

You’re in my fingers and I can’t get you out;
I can smell you. Warm & wet & dreaming – every time I push a key,
you come curling out
smoke in good light given
form – not human, something else; an angel,
if I believed in angels; a devil
if I could believe sin had rewards; a muse
with more talent than I;

– I don’t need this; I’m okay, I’m
alright; the scabs running up my arm
tell me I’m okay now –

hands, paralysed, locking up, running
out of letters that aren’t your name; all words given
up the ghost for endless silence but my
bargains – desperate one-sided negotiations driven
largely, by candlelight & whiskey & pills;

                     I’d burn everything I’ve wrote –
                           delete every picture that graces my phone –
                           unfrown every frown I’ve frowned –
                           unsmile every smile I’ve smiled –
                           tear the abandoned paintings from the shadows of my wardrobes –
                           erase every drawing & dream –
                           smash each record that made my youth bearable –
                           forget every drink that made me smart & sarcastic –

just for a few seconds of your lips
or your fingers
gently gracing

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modern poetry

Writing Verse

why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm


gentle shores teasing infinity are
beautiful but they are not you
I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty

Working Still Life Classes

I don’t want my depressions taken
from me – taken too seriously;
rather fodder for endless jokes &
no hatreds revealed
but rage & rats cause bitter smiles to blossom
into joyous things;