by Poetry

there were times
               late at night
when I needed you

                              just an arm’s length
               away & so far gone

for fear of waking
               I crept away
& walked home & sat
a decapitant
                        on a metal bench
outside the converted church

                              where could I go
               then for my conversions

                              where could I rest
               heavy hands & long
                              for the cool breath
               of the holy

in the rain suddenly
               false teeth retching
cigarette smoke

                              I pretend not to smoke
                              I barely pretend
               to breathe

took heroin last night
               the first time
in years I think
I’ve forgotten how
               to be high
forgotten how to
be an addict

I bought red wine
from a 24/7 & left it
sitting beside my bed
               I can open it anytime
I only need to need
a corkscrew
more than I need to sleep

Free eBooks

modern poetry

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...


You’re in my fingers and I can’t get you out; I can smell you. Warm & wet & dreaming - every time I push a key, you come curling out smoke in good light given form – not human, something else; an angel, if I believed in angels; a devil if I could believe sin...

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...

… And Us?

The poet smiles, a hot wet smile at every girl that waves past; he doesn’t care. Anything with thighs and breasts is a bullseye target; repulsive creature. The artist dehumanises all things; stares blankly at her wine pictures blood fountaining from its rim. Glass...