by Favourites, Poetry

I am tired of submitting to your beauty
as I am tired of submitting to the endless
magazines online nothings & hand-stapled
& their editors
careless with their editing
& careful only when
positioning their mirrors
to watch themselves masturbate
over some perfect storm – themselves
canadian mists
dark skin
endless revolving pixelated platitudes
to set developing hearts
of teenage girls aflame
like industrial sabotage
& burn their neuroses
in a blood-forest fire replenishing
their insecurities
to hold them
warm & burning
in the grip
of some

I wonder how much of my time has been spent in outrage; in the knee-jerk rage that accompanies refusal – how much longer has been lost to the crushed apathy that accompanies each refusal? The worst part, and anyone will tell you this, is when you don’t hear anything back. When you are left in the void; the complete silence.

It is easy to fall into the trap of self-pity; to blame the times, the changing tastes, the rising of marginalised voices pushing; it would be so easy to lament my failures as the universe bending towards justice, as too long have people of my gender and my race and my sexuality been awarded every advantage in the world.

Fortunately, I am able to distance myself from these complaints. I understand why the void continues to grow, and the refusal emails settle about my desk more than ever. Editors can smell frauds, and I am a fraud; they can see the whiskey hovering above my mask, as I strike the pose of Thomas Wolfe, of Dylan Thomas, of Baudillaire and Lawrence and all the rest. I am sick and tired of my submissions.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet


I ask their mirrors
clutching the remains
of some stolen loves &
trying to light ash again;
why me?


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

Pietà: A Poem

In numerous stolen night terrors, the blonde Venetian woman of the stars sits alone, a crowd of herself spread across a red and white dancefloor tablecloth. Bottles of vino make spirited advances and spear the air with alcohol intent and she dreams to breathe them in...

On the Bird’s Wings

I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain