PoetryModern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems
why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm
had I known, then? arriving
the breeze come burning
& guiding mighty storms from seas
I knew come shuddering drugs
& clenched the teeth to bite
the sleeping waters
cigarettes & two words –
le bel! Le bel!
shouted over the water, momentary
madness our bondage
freed in chains, exultation free in
she watches over
even the sparrows
so why didn’t she watch over me
am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird
lynched between the library & addictions
Miller exploded in me again; all God suddenly
eternal in the world
she couldn’t answer
she was the language
holy thoughts come rising in
for there to be successful writers,
great poets recording twisted skeletons
of the age – a scaffold of mediocre writers,
poets who call themselves poets;
beauty and analysis
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 can’t escape your smell; releasemy fingers, my eyes, my beards, my masks, my clothes & my car I’ve tried everything; - cigarettes on my finger - Titian exhibits for my eyes - bleach in my beard - blood on my shirts & mud on my jeans - broken speed limits & migrant valetsin the office, they’re making eyes at me wondering when...
Over the Seine, life plays out its fullest – we’re all exhausted, dirty & no refreshment in the stolen rain before the sky cracked with summer again & complain of French expression;Their passion makes us sterileWhile I contemplate suicide, again, wondering if the waters of the Seine would fill my lungs differently than the poison in the Mersey;...
You’re in my fingers and I can’t get you out; I can smell you. Warm & wet & dreaming - every time I push a key, you come curling out smoke in good light given form – not human, something else; an angel, if I believed in angels; a devil if I could believe sin had rewards; a muse with more talent than I;- I don't need this; I'm okay, I'malright; the...
Poetry is one of the last great refuges of the 21st Century. Modern poetry spins and crackles in the air; modern, traditional, post-modern poems move through our brains and mellows, enrages, burns and blows on the wind. All poems can enhearten us, devastate us. Poems can be a clever turn of phrase, a wry smile, an evocation of any emotion – poems are one of the only art forms which can actually provide us with a framework on how to live our lives.
And now, by forcing it to perform in pixels and on screens, I’m destroying modern poetry. I don’t want to. I want to glisten like a modern poet, to smile and move and turn on the spot like a poet. These poems aren’t really poems – I don’t know if it’s possible for somebody like me to write poems. They are an attempt at modern poetry.