The landscape spread before us & danced, twisted into
such beauty;
                        it yearned to be a poem –
it wanted to travel with me,
& in me,
& witness for itself,
its own beauties when
compared to the streets
dead-ends, dark houses & stagnant
cathedrals still clinging to my spine;
the keenness of it all, the promiscuity of the world
turned me off, then & there –

 – I have never loved
                                     those whose bodies
                                     are naturally the bodies of muses,
                                     as I have never loved a mountain
                                     for its size, or an ocean,
                                                                                 for its endlessness –

– I have never truly loved
a natural muse, & those who struggle
and fight and work to make their bodies
the bodies of muses
are charlatans;
                           like the rest of us.
                                                            We misunderstand the
meaning of muses & we’re all dreaming
of angels.

I envy the landscape poets, like I envy the artists who shudder to capture a scene in their art. I have never been able to capture a truly beautiful landscape; they are beyond me, too large for one weak man’s imitation. Had I a full workshop, with a dozens poets working on some great masterpiece, I might be able to present one moment of the world; one scene in perfect stillness or alive with the thunderous joy of simply being alive, with eyes stretched out to see the beauty of light on dark scenes.

Every landscape I have seen now stands as a testament to my failures – like the great game hunters, I assume the living mock me for running out of bullets and ink so early in the day. No heads of trees, or bodies of rivers stand in my hall as a testament to my skill as a tracker, or my precision with a rifle. I envy the landscape poets, who can see so clearly and so intimately over such a large scale when I, inevitably, fail and fail and fail again.

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Carey Poet

Pygmalion

there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

Talkin’ Bouquet Blues

roses are only beautiful because
they are weak
& you are not weak
but filled with the ghosts of a thousand lover’s bowers
you have outlived a thousand roses

Sul Serio

I had a friend
who used to inject
ink straight
into his arteries
black tracks
running up his arms;

The Pen Sniggered

And I, Carey, have measured out my life in used needles, and bloody fingerprints on my clothes, and pictures of my own cock on my phone, shrivelled by drink and a growing tumour of pain in the tendons of my calf and such a cancerous lust, and the shaking hand around...