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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A Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her.She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks...

Beautiful & Meaningless

were I a painter
& could distend light
across empty skies
I would paint the bodies of Christ
as they rolled in their eternal
loves & agonies

La Fleur est Belle

the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark

Recall Reflections

when I come to know
or understand who he is
I will cease to write of John Carey (and,
laying my pen down
at the graveside of
that simple, difficult, unhappy man