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.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet

La Fleur est Belle

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 Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her.She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks...

The Grand Western

I don’t remember much of the days we spent together, roaming a water’s edge, watching black summer storms rolling in across the ocean; I remember Guitar Hero was my seduction, like clutching buttons too tightly was a sign of things to come;...


cigarettes & two words –
le bel! Le bel!
shouted over the water, momentary
madness our bondage
freed in chains, exultation free in
passionate strings;