by Poetry

there are men out there
real men,
my love has hurt;
who do more good than me &
more evil too;

men whose bodies are tuned
or weapons making
the most beautiful
musics – all
my strings have snapped
& my powder is wet;

men in clean suits &
ragged t-shirts too;

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

too many smile
lean back & let
loves fall away – I like to see you suffer
they say;
                             I live to watch you burn

I’ve learned there isn’t always a justification for the things I write; there isn’t always a thought or a reason behind them. Nor does there need to be. Perhaps, were I a Poet Laureate, I might be expected to justify my musings – were I the Master of the Queen’s Music, I should be able to explode with fine tunes and compositions – were I Her great warmonger, I should be able to justify my invasions, even with the thin veil of crude.

But, as I am none of these things, I have no need to explain myself at all. I’ll write whatever I damn well please. I don’t owe anybody anything.

Free eBooks

modern poetry


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


poets; happy to tell you
you have a broken smile
& they’ll keep you from splints
& medicines
so they can tell you over
& over again