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.

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modern poetry


she watches over
even the sparrows
you said
so why didn’t she watch over me
am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird


I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

Swearing in Italian

I spend my days wrestling with angels,
gripping and grappling…

A Little Ink

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