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


Progression will not be found in the holy, the holy, the holy nothing will be found in the holy as we are holy, as we decry the soul is a fingertip of the holy, the holy is not the soul, the soul is man and woman and base and growing and shrivelling and a rotten petal...

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

Coal Carthage

The bars of this cage, tightening nooses now; still Broken britain; legs & fluttering wings beneath scaled metal eyes twitching, humming lenses; glitter and stand resolute! wings blinking in nothing, rust against the wet night despite pleas of rattle-high footsteps ‘cross the cobblestones & the grass & the mud dirt.

Pietà: A Poem

In numerous stolen night terrors, the blonde Venetian woman of the stars sits alone, a crowd of herself spread across a red and white dancefloor tablecloth. Bottles of vino make spirited advances and spear the air with alcohol intent and she dreams to breathe them in...