by Poetry

she watches over
even the sparrows
you said
so why didn’t she watch over me

am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird

is the marrow
in my bones
too heavy to

I’ve been dieting
no solids only straw hat’s prestige
six one & nine stone now

with all her might
she can lift nine stones
to heaven

I have an obsession with birds that predates my obsessions with myself and beauty. So, too, have I an obsession with spirituality; perhaps not religion, but something above meagre bone and blood and meat – something that touches the spinning chemicals as they spiral through my chest. All easy to justify now – my obsessions.

Who knew that I could write about my body – my ugly body, my twisted being – and still know the freedom of wings, and hear the tolling of church bells?

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modern poetry

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson, There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on...

A Vague Outrage

White Cross, Blue Flag flicker; as the silhouettes, the half-men and the half-women write poetry and form semi-colons amongst the clouds and the endless skies; they block the sun in the spaces between phrase and phrase and I breathe petroleum, or the remnants of...

Hollowed Out

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t me looking out…

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...