Modern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems

Modern Poetry


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...

The Moth

Lit by the dulling drunks, & lonely matches,a moth climbed the shadows;thought of you, thoughts of me, so far away now;How your light came breaking through the me of being me; How soon I became a moth, desperate in your darkness, fleeing only the shapes of things to come.Furious, & high, & hating it, I resolved to get clean; I limped to the...


Terrifying, how much poetry   one can find, if you look      in the right graves.  Ezra show me nightmares needed to understand the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse and I will dream them;under northern clouds, I will dream the rare beauty of a clear night sky until all the stars go out and there is nothing left;under nothingness, I will dream of the...

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.

The Tudor

Presented without comment, dedicated to memories and dreams. Such a strong vulnerability; like moonlight on the lighter as you try another cigarette, hoping, this time, to burn outin smoke and spittle the pure body of art; My beauties bled from between my lipsmixed with whiskey and not flowing; thick, viscous and flammable; I tried to cover my jaw but with...

Hollowed Out

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

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 choking on life. All the sounds of his life are the sounds of death; pumps and footsteps,...

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Modern Poetry

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.