by | Poetry

I can’t escape your smell; release
my 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 valets

in the office, they’re
making eyes at me
wondering when I’ll snap;
some are turning those noses
when I move – you come
curling out of my skin – the smell
of you – perfumed sweaty
smoke moving from all the
cigarettes you stole; never sure
if you smoke for the love of smoking
                – a break from the pressures of smiles
                  & the heat of social sex –
or just some excuse
to stand with me, whatever the weather,
& dream in our holy,
white breath.

I think something’s coming to a head now. I can feel it in my throat & I read it in the papers. We’re rushing towards an end, like a nightmare scenario played out by sickly scientists who never tasted anyone as teenagers.

I don’t know if it’s a personal end, or some cataclysmic thing when the stars explode & the earth shatters & all the bare bones of man & of women are revealed to be the same bones as pigs & dogs & only the birds escape & fly off into the endlessness with nothing more than dreams & the last air in their lungs.

I think the streets are full of lies & I’m drowning in them. Ex-coworkers with ugly beards are pretending to be happy. Robotic rapists prowl the bars in tight shirts and ties. Beautiful women are undercutting themselves. Desperate women think it’s Halloween every night. The true, fantastic, terrifying, mad, explosive crescendos are flirting with lifestyles they aren’t ready for & breaking dark hearts with their spontaneous lights.

& experience makes virgins of us all.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet


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,...

The Pen Sniggered

And I, Carey, have measured out my life in used needles, and bloody fingerprints on my clothes, and pictures of my own cock on my phone, shrivelled by drink and a growing tumour of pain in the tendons of my calf and such a cancerous lust, and the shaking hand around...

Great Poets

for there to be successful writers,
commercial poets
great poets recording twisted skeletons
of the age – a scaffold of mediocre writers,
poets who call themselves poets;
beauty and analysis

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;...