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

After the Parasites Came

I draw my grandfather’s lungs in charcoal spit the fluid in his throat; tremor in art as is the shaking hands when he goes to lift the tea to his lips. Making leaves in old mugs transferred to sipping cups and the brief illumination of the body...

Where’s the A, huh?

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?
Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-


I think, tonight, I’m going to drink until I’m angry enough to fuck someone who isn’t me. I’m going to put songs that nobody knows on the jukebox and I’m the only one singing along to broken folk, rapist’s rap and Christian rock. And I’ll probably walk home alone,...

Mesnes Park

How coarse the street-piano’s language appears, how brutish and dumb when spavined hands perform ugly permutations in the air; conjuring that beastly Autumn, right before the rain. Our summers came wet, too; blistering light which made eyes –...