by Poetry

it would be nice      I think it would be nice
to pretend that all this pain      is purely for you
romantic in our fucked up way      how fucked we
have always been      it comes now to romance
and something like love      truth is I was hurting & hurting myself
long before you came along      hurting myself even
while you’ve been in me      I don’t think you’ve felt it
I hope you haven’t felt it      I’m sorry if you have
truth is I’ll keep on      hurting
when you finally extricate yourself      naked and dripping
what little there is left of me      what shackles spider web tendons
heavy bone links      & this fat flesh
must appear to the wind      as you are
the wind

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Loch Earn

had I known, then? arriving
the breeze come burning
& guiding mighty storms from seas
I knew come shuddering drugs
& clenched the teeth to bite
the sleeping waters

On the Bird’s Wings

I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain

Morts Anglais

Over the Seine, life plays out its fullest – we’re all exhausted, dirty & no refreshment in the stolen rain before the sky cracked with summer again & complain of French expression;Their passion makes us sterileWhile I contemplate suicide, again, wondering if...


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...