Why is Free Verse So Popular?

As a modern person trying to write, I find myself immediately moving towards free verse. The main reasons for this are, basically, that most of my poetic heroes wrote in free verse. What would Howl have been, for example, if it was forced to move within the confines...

Finding Life Prosaic

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

Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…

Hollowed Out

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t me looking out…

On the Bird’s Wings

I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain

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...

Poetry

Are You Happy?

Whenever I think of happiness, I’m filled with this kind of hopelessness. I can’t think of a single time when I have experienced the joy that I’ve read about – the kind of elation that spits fire through the veins. And that is all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not interested...

Ghost

S; here comes your ghost again through the wall wailing. The scars in the meat of your arm, beneath spectral skin, catch on the iron nails that hold up your art and make you scream and pull away the muscle itself. With scrabbling fingers, hooked claws, puncturing the...

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...

Unfocused

I can’t get the camera to focus. All the streetlights are stretched from Heaven to Hell; they make it impossible to see. The sky pants to itself, desperate, behind the yellow flowers, starved, and crucified on the grass, thirsty, beneath the splintered lights, waiting...

Prose

Reading Dossie (Dream 13)

‘You know, the trouble with the whole cog in the machine kind of resignation is that it still justifies inactivity or, rather, a kind of distant activity. It suggests that your existence, that your continued servitude, is essential to the operation of all things; that...

Idiolect On The M6 (Dream 11)

Y’know, we started calling him St. Mina, cos’ of his long, morose face which adopted this weighed down, grey kind of look. His shoulders were slumped, like a scholar’s, and his hands moved in a heavy motion, turning the wheel like he was steering a cruise liner down...

Essays & Articles

5 Books I’m Glad I Read Before I Turned 23

So, in a very short period of time I’ll be 23. 23. 23 years old. Jesus Christ; even the idea of being that old makes me feel tired. Anyway, as I’m now a man of a certain age, it’s time for me to stop looking forward to the next five or six years I’ve got left on this...

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