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.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet

For Hannah;

And the fog comes rolling in,
rolling in shrouded words
in thick black strings coiling,
in thick black strings falling
down the whiteness down the blinding purity
down the Heavenly earth turned Hellish in the mind


I ask their mirrors
clutching the remains
of some stolen loves &
trying to light ash again;
why me?

Kingfisher II

to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises

Henry David’s Haven

Dare I dare, to watch the sun break open against these alien, icy shores? To watch it, rudely, shoulder aside the mist, from those distant, ice-shrouded moors; to push the smog of industry, into the alleyways of these bloody streets? To encompass these footsteps of...