by | Poetry

Terrifying, how much poetry
  one can find, if you look
     in the right graves.


show me nightmares
needed to understand
the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse
and I will dream them;

under northern clouds, I will dream
the rare beauty of a clear night sky
until all the stars go out
and there is nothing left;

under nothingness, I will dream
of the great, forgotten jewels;
glistening dew on an evening dress.

Show me, again, Ezra, mad Ezra,
the majesties and freedoms
of this madness;
show me them in dying,
if not in death –
in living,
if not in life.

We are dying, you and I,
(or dead already) and,
there are poets out there,
living adequate lives; creating
reflections and pressed ashes
of the most exquisite beauty –
and there are those, living
truly wonderful moments,
truly beautiful nights,
without writing
a single word.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet


Progression will not be found in the holy, the holy, the holy nothing will be found in the holy as we are holy, as we decry the soul is a fingertip of the holy, the holy is not the soul, the soul is man and woman and base and growing and shrivelling and a rotten petal...

The Moth

Lit by the dulling drunks, & lonely matches,a moth climbed the shadows;thought of you, thoughts of me, so far away now;How your light came breaking through the me of being me; How soon I became a moth, desperate in your darkness, fleeing only the shapes of things...


The mirror haunts me and turns my words to air, my love to grey light that starves, burns, screams beneath red-hot fluorescence. Madonna; can I pretend to love and know these love poems in my rotten pancreas? Can I pretend that this sudden obsession has the merest...

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...