by Poetry

she watches over
even the sparrows
you said
so why didn’t she watch over me

am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird

is the marrow
in my bones
too heavy to

I’ve been dieting
no solids only straw hat’s prestige
six one & nine stone now

with all her might
she can lift nine stones
to heaven

I have an obsession with birds that predates my obsessions with myself and beauty. So, too, have I an obsession with spirituality; perhaps not religion, but something above meagre bone and blood and meat – something that touches the spinning chemicals as they spiral through my chest. All easy to justify now – my obsessions.

Who knew that I could write about my body – my ugly body, my twisted being – and still know the freedom of wings, and hear the tolling of church bells?

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modern poetry

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


I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

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...

Northern Nowhere

What would Byron and his prose have done, oh Lord, if he had caught the 6:07 train to nowhere much but the glittering capital and listened, with drowned porcelain ears, to Scottish spiritualism, the artistic nothing and the great absence - these Nowhere people of...