by Poetry

I can’t escape your smell; release
my fingers, my eyes, my beards,
my masks, my clothes & my car

                I’ve tried everything;
– cigarettes on my finger
– Titian exhibits for my eyes
– bleach in my beard
– blood on my shirts & mud on my jeans
– broken speed limits & migrant valets

in the office, they’re
making eyes at me
wondering when I’ll snap;
some are turning those noses
when I move – you come
curling out of my skin – the smell
of you – perfumed sweaty
smoke moving from all the
cigarettes you stole; never sure
if you smoke for the love of smoking
                – a break from the pressures of smiles
                  & the heat of social sex –
or just some excuse
to stand with me, whatever the weather,
& dream in our holy,
white breath.

I think something’s coming to a head now. I can feel it in my throat & I read it in the papers. We’re rushing towards an end, like a nightmare scenario played out by sickly scientists who never tasted anyone as teenagers.

I don’t know if it’s a personal end, or some cataclysmic thing when the stars explode & the earth shatters & all the bare bones of man & of women are revealed to be the same bones as pigs & dogs & only the birds escape & fly off into the endlessness with nothing more than dreams & the last air in their lungs.

I think the streets are full of lies & I’m drowning in them. Ex-coworkers with ugly beards are pretending to be happy. Robotic rapists prowl the bars in tight shirts and ties. Beautiful women are undercutting themselves. Desperate women think it’s Halloween every night. The true, fantastic, terrifying, mad, explosive crescendos are flirting with lifestyles they aren’t ready for & breaking dark hearts with their spontaneous lights.

& experience makes virgins of us all.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet


a decapitant
on a metal bench
outside the converted church
where could I go
then for my conversions
where could I rest

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

Northern Nowhere

What would Byron and his prose have done, oh Lord, if he had caught the 6:07 train to nowhere much but the glittering capital and listened, with drowned porcelain ears, to Scottish spiritualism, the artistic nothing and the great absence - these Nowhere people of...


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