Modern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems

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

The Grand Western

I don’t remember much of the days we spent together, roaming a water’s edge, watching black summer storms rolling in across the ocean; I remember Guitar Hero was my seduction, like clutching buttons too tightly was a sign of things to come; Guitar Hero was my seduction, and yours was living – how we envied the beautiful, the...

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 – more accustomed to wooden candles at 2.A.M - contract and convulse; the impudent clouds’...


Sometimes, we kneel in the shower with the pressure
and the heat turned up as high as they can go…

A Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her. She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks along the Bell. She decided to keep 10% of her wages in a different bank account so it...

For Hannah;

I go looking every morning, for the clearest view; for that clean contrast between the greens and the blues. I go looking on hilltops and riversides, atop tenement buildings and trailing the gutters through the cities and the towns, to the thatched roofs of true, archaic beauty surmounted with ancient waste. Clarity reflects when, enrapt, eyes lock on some...

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 in money, or popularity; I’m not even interested in love, if I am being honest with...


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 air like talons howling, disturbing, disturbing my sleep and burning, burning, burning the...

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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.