December 4th, 2017

by Poetry

I’m not going to make this about love.

               heard all your warnings,
                              don’t want to be pigeonholed.

I know other things
               intimately; low-slung couches
cigarettes & spontaneous electrical surges.

                                             don’t worry
                              I know violence too & I’ll get to that –
               the feel of a heart leaving
                                                            inside the chest.

I’m not going to write about love right now,
                                             no beauty either – not ready for it;

                              in a violent mood – would punch the wall
                                                                           tired of justifying bruised knuckles in office meetings – S…..
                                             never believes me
                              thinks I protest too much
               ready for a fight now – there’s killing in me yet;
would perform it beautifully but
               need a partner more beautiful than I,

I’m not looking to win
                                             just get my heart beating again
                                             give my shoulders a workout

do you see how hard I’m trying
               not to write about love just
                              a beating heart &

                                                            have I ever written about love – no
                              stop it
                                      isn’t about love
                                             about life & life
                                                            ain’t love

not making this about love – what
else is there?

                              what else is there?

                                             like my windscreen – the way it fogs
up on nights like these;  like my radio cuts out on potholes & decay – radio cuts out a lot these days;
                                       like braking hard or turning sharp to avoid small animals on the road;
                                       like putting my foot down when I shouldn’t
                         like taking the long way home

                                             look at me, not writing about love
                                             look at me, not inhabiting a dead tongue
                                             look at me, no mention of a blowjob anywhere

                              still find it fascinating when poets
                                             write about cunt; like
                              there’s any taboo left to cunt when wispy
               hairs become bracken, a mysterious fog,

               there’s more beauty now in the way
                              she creases her dress to sit
               than in her nudity & culture more alien
                              in fingertips than honey poets stumble
               to find in her thighs;

     I don’t feel ready to
          write about love again
     not after this

Dear Sir,

               I read with great interest to discover that you’ve gone mad.
I found it most amusing to picture you howling in the streets, a stray dog indeed!
I like to think about your body; pale; hairy; irish genetics & predispositions.
You must come and visit with us sometime; I long to here you perform your withdrawal symptoms in my hall.


Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet
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Finding Life Prosaic

fingers bleeding prosaic, money
to clog arteries and veins,
to quell the rise and flow of

On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting...

Recall Reflections

when I come to know
or understand who he is
I will cease to write of John Carey (and,
laying my pen down
at the graveside of
that simple, difficult, unhappy man


I ask their mirrors
clutching the remains
of some stolen loves &
trying to light ash again;
why me?