La Fleur est Belle

by Poetry

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
a public declaration      shivering hairs cower fragments
the old-testament god in the flower      an interrogator revealing
by bruises & jump leads      the spilling of Pulp revealing
records of children; their fists full of grass      fingernail lacerations revealing
how unworthy the flower is of the very name flower

when the rivers rise, the flower sees itself & its malformation
clear waters apply no filters      & how the flower comes to loathe its name
in the beauty of the other flowers      shoulders squared against the dying days
how the flower loathes its name      & comes to judge its form
how its leaves were the weak leaves      how its stem bent & crooked
ungainly growths to repel halves      & make even masturbation a fantasy
how its petals shrouded in monochrome      drowning sun revealing
thin veins      fat desires & demands
wasted light      to grow diminutive things
that only come to know life as I have come to know life
burning in the moments of your shadow passing over
& sick flower self-sickness learned as I have learned
to breathe & to grow even while starving &
starved of you

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Where’s the A, huh?

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?
Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-

Are You Happy?

Whenever I think of happiness, I’m filled with this kind of hopelessness. I can’t think of a single time when I have experienced the joy that I’ve read about – the kind of elation that spits fire through the veins. And that is all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not interested...


on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums

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