Where’s the A, huh?

by Poetry

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?

Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-
conceptions
over what a poet should & should not be?

                there is no great poet in this country
                                                           in this room
                                                           in this body

I’m afraid you only stand me now,
                                                                    or sit crossed-legs &
fingers drumming a writer’s desk
                                                                 when I ooze poetry,
                                congealed blood or pus from a wound
bleeding out in your company or image;

                I’ve not been paying my bills & rely on your words
to keep this room lit;
                                happy to let old scars shine on your body,
                wounds ancient Cain & Abel ancient
                                flecks of silver ‘gainst our riverbed
perfection, yourself
still waiting
for the perfect poem

                                                                                                strung up
on all the drugs I knew;
                                French, codeine, face paints, you,
                                Scarlett’s violins, Guinness, morning dew
                                acid & stage curtains, Daubigny & crow-laughter
                                a—–v— still, living still,
                                growing on this windowsill

you like long poems
I’m not strong enough to support
mighty words &
mighty works – like Shards on the
page

the poetry isn’t coming; I don’t know
                      how to tell you that; there are no
words in me
                        to cover the divine humanity of your lights
on show

                      there’s a drought while others drown
                                           & I’ve come to envy those with waters
                      in their lungs &
                      if the well is dry & our crops are dying
      you’ll take those legs, lights, snare-fingers & demands
                      & walk out the door;

                perhaps, after you, I can become a poet again.

Free eBooks

poetry
modern poetry
Carey Poet
wigan poetry

On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting...

3 Small Mercies

& I know it is dead
for a living heart
would erupt from the seat
& race to me & damn the world
as I would damn the world
if it would beat for me again

December 4th, 2017

I’m not going to make this about love.
heard all your warnings,
don’t want to be pigeonholed.
I know other things
intimately; low-slung couches
cigarettes & spontaneous electrical surges.

On Creation

Budding flowers of asphalt roads birthed from cracks/ stretch out impossibly smoothancient creature awoken/the limping pace of my motion/ nervous system’s tax/to walk ancient and pristine paths/ignorant living and the dead things’ wrath/see the midway minds of a...