by Poetry

don’t trust poets;
                                 they love you;
                                 they don’t do life
                                                                  by half measures

don’t trust poets;
                                  they’ll love you
                              & endlessly revise their love
                              & improve until their love is truly beautiful
                              & isn’t love at all

                                  they’re happy to tell you
                                                          you have a broken smile
                              & they’ll keep you from splints
                              & medicines
                                                            so they can tell you over
                              & over again

                                             poets; parasites
                                                      ; infectious, too;
                                                                           feeding on beauty
                                                                           residing in ugliness

don’t trust poets
or fall with those
who cannibalise their fantasies

                                             we’re all just looking for mirrors
                                             in which we can reflect
                                             our dreams

I hold poets in the deepest disgust. I am envious of them too. I hate them for the way they see the world, and can’t help but love them for the way they make me see the world in their company and their absence. Poets are like drug-dealers, holy beings and fanatics all rolled into one. When I meet a poet, a real poet, whether they’ve realised they’re a poet or not, I am struck by the most intense dislike and jealousy and affection all at once.

Inevitably, I end up making a fool out of myself. I get drunk, or high, or will myself into a rage with words like judgement, meaning; I invariably find myself preaching about the soul – like I have any fucking clue what a soul is, or was, or ever could be.

If you ever see a poet, make sure you give ’em one from me.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet

8:07 Saturday Morning

tesco express
Piccadilly red wings
dripping from my fingers
a crumpled suit stretched
hung by the neck
my guillotine body


Terrifying, how much poetry   one can find, if you look      in the right graves.  Ezra show me nightmares needed to understand the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse and I will dream them;under northern clouds, I will dream the rare beauty of a clear night sky...

… 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...

All These Words

And all these words are an act of vomit, of feeling the soul pulse in the stomach and spit; all these words like black bile raindrops on a white porcelain page And all memory of the moment is replaced with the aftermath, and the harsh pleasures of endless revulsion...