Cotton Books

by Poetry

he came to her bed
on some forgotten day

to read he swore & came
brandishing old books
in the sunlight dust

               smiling she welcomed
him to her bed

body-bed-body torturous
               he read for hours
until the night feeling & bedsheets
               more than a form
& the long-dead

in her tears he swore devotions
               he is devoted to her
               the books still open their
               legs in the night eyelashes
               flutter through smoky memory
               & no dust bedroom
               & he finds it impossible
to spell the shape of her body
               sounding out
                              curves & flesh

now ink moves
               an endless butchery
as dreams torment
               unlovely flesh
& cold to the touch

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modern poetry


after years I understood that I
am not the great hero of my
own poems; all failures &
cruelties are mine & belong
to me – all weaknesses of the world
are the weaknesses I own

3 Small Mercies

& I know it is dead
for a living heart
would erupt from the seat
& race to me & damn the world
as I would damn the world
if it would beat for me again

River Desire

creations bare bones
now fresh frost curves nudity
living silken suit
sky heaves as life leaves
tense and laboured atmosphere
ice rolls and rises

The Grand Western

I don’t remember much of the days we spent together, roaming a water’s edge, watching black summer storms rolling in across the ocean; I remember Guitar Hero was my seduction, like clutching buttons too tightly was a sign of things to come;...