by Poetry

don’t trust poets;
                                 they love you;
                                 they don’t do life
                                                                  by half measures

don’t trust poets;
                                  they’ll love you
                              & endlessly revise their love
                              & improve until their love is truly beautiful
                              & isn’t love at all

                                  they’re happy to tell you
                                                          you have a broken smile
                              & they’ll keep you from splints
                              & medicines
                                                            so they can tell you over
                              & over again

                                             poets; parasites
                                                      ; infectious, too;
                                                                           feeding on beauty
                                                                           residing in ugliness

don’t trust poets
or fall with those
who cannibalise their fantasies

                                             we’re all just looking for mirrors
                                             in which we can reflect
                                             our dreams

I hold poets in the deepest disgust. I am envious of them too. I hate them for the way they see the world, and can’t help but love them for the way they make me see the world in their company and their absence. Poets are like drug-dealers, holy beings and fanatics all rolled into one. When I meet a poet, a real poet, whether they’ve realised they’re a poet or not, I am struck by the most intense dislike and jealousy and affection all at once.

Inevitably, I end up making a fool out of myself. I get drunk, or high, or will myself into a rage with words like judgement, meaning; I invariably find myself preaching about the soul – like I have any fucking clue what a soul is, or was, or ever could be.

If you ever see a poet, make sure you give ’em one from me.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet

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;...

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson, There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on...


Spear-shaft strength and a priest suffering metallic inspiration – the taste of copper in his fingertips making him itch and his flesh ring; he scratches with blades and scratches foreign skin, for daring to touch his own like a rash he takes inspiration from stock...


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...