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

Line Of Sugar

These street signs have buckled beneath their own weight, as they were always bound to do, and their interiors are hollow shadow and shaped metal and filled with plastic bags. It doesn’t rain, but water falls from the open skies, and all the rodents move in the times...

Bluebird

Liz, I don’t know how to start this letter. I’ve spent hours; countless papers sprawled across my bed and in my bin; that perfect opening line. I wanted, in a sentence, to remind you; reflected a thousand times against the glass walls and above the pool table at 3:00...

Sparrows

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

On Creation

Budding flowers of asphalt roads birthed from cracks/ stretch out impossibly smoothancient creature awoken/the limping pace of my motion/ nervous system’s tax/to walk ancient and pristine paths/ignorant living and the dead things’ wrath/see the midway minds of a...