8:07 Saturday Morning

by Poetry

tesco express
Piccadilly red wings
dripping from my fingers
a crumpled suit stretched
hung by the neck
my guillotine body
shaking & nervous caught
in some long-legged storm;
a self-service machine drags me
from the eye
what dreams that night
all wine & worse
my shame comes spitting
with the receipt
& small ribbons
squat in my pockets
as spoon-holes pattern
beneath my beard
my skin is raw
torn by silent songs
I never knew I had to sing

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Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…


I think, tonight, I’m going to drink until I’m angry enough to fuck someone who isn’t me. I’m going to put songs that nobody knows on the jukebox and I’m the only one singing along to broken folk, rapist’s rap and Christian rock. And I’ll probably walk home alone,...

Writing Verse

why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm


lynched between the library & addictions
Miller exploded in me again; all God suddenly
eternal in the world
she couldn’t answer
she was the language
holy thoughts come rising in