I Would Be Killed That All The Muses Are Dead, But They Are Becoming Outmoded Anyway & The Bullish Sexism Of The Whole Thing Makes Me Treat Poetry With Disgust – Better To Write In The Shadows Of Poetics, Than Turn My Hand To Poetry Again

by Poetry

where do I begin

               I don’t blame you for not loving me
               I used you to put myself through hell
               I wrote books on you & tore your name out
               after that I wrote in my own nerves

                              who has known Nox as I

               with codeine to see her
               ripped flesh & ripped bodice
               both to trace the scars so
               similar to mine & tell me

are you happier now
               now we’re over ourselves
               now you’ve fallen for obesity
               now we’ve come to know
               masculinity & you’ve had
               the lesbianism bullied out
               of you by lesbian allies

                              for a time I think
                                             we had the same taste in women
               this isn’t love & I don’t know
               if it ever was I wanted it to be
               wanted to endure the horror
               & romance of unrequited love
               wanted to crucify myself
               on the inches of your body &
               the nails of your smile

                              I’m still sorry
                                             for breaking your bed

               how much of you did I take
               into me & trap there & how much
               of my breath comes from your
               lungs & how much blood
               holds the ghosts of old
               erections with your frame
               in their cells & your hands
               on my thighs

               will I still be writing for you
                                             when I’m thirty
               will I still be writing about you
                                             when I’m forty
               will I still feel the same guilt & mad
               obsessions I felt at fifteen while
               clutching my children’s hands &
                                             reaching for the morphine

                                                            where do you end
                                                            when do I begin

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modern poetry
Carey Poet
Carey Poet


The mirror haunts me and turns my words to air, my love to grey light that starves, burns, screams beneath red-hot fluorescence. Madonna; can I pretend to love and know these love poems in my rotten pancreas? Can I pretend that this sudden obsession has the merest...


Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist, the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule, the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire, the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow, pregnant and mute, the mist that weeps...


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


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