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

z—-
               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

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

are you happier now
z—-
               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
z—-
               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
                              I
               wanted to crucify myself
               on the inches of your body &
               the nails of your smile

                              I’m still sorry
                                             for breaking your bed

z—-
               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

z—-
               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
                              drip

                                                            where do you end
                                                            when do I begin

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Carey Poet
Carey Poet

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;

Kingfisher

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

Chasers

lynched between the library & addictions
Miller exploded in me again; all God suddenly
eternal in the world
she couldn’t answer
she was the language
holy thoughts come rising in

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