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

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