The Tudor

by Poetry

Presented without comment, dedicated to memories and dreams.

Such a strong vulnerability; like
moonlight on the lighter
as you try another cigarette, hoping,
this time, to burn out
in smoke and spittle the pure
body of art;

My beauties bled from between my lips
mixed with whiskey and not flowing;
thick, viscous and flammable;
I tried to cover my jaw
but with shaking hands could
only cover my eyes;

How long, now? How many years
drowning in our sins? How long since
we laid our own futures out, chess pieces
scattered to the office floor? When did your
legs come alive, and bury themselves
in the mire of my head?

Your beauties are your own, and mine
are mine; still, your soft words shouted
over cacophony given awards for poetry
echo and rattle and your body moves like
a priestess rising from the sacrifice again
and your hair makes a mystery of you and
your fingers wrap slowly around whatever
it is you’re drinking and I can’t wait for you
to talk again just to hear how my heart
is going to break again and the poetry comes
to an end in silence until the only poetry left
in this fucking room
is you.

Free eBooks

poetry
modern poetry
Carey Poet

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no,...

Mesnes Park

How coarse the street-piano’s language appears, how brutish and dumb when spavined hands perform ugly permutations in the air; conjuring that beastly Autumn, right before the rain. Our summers came wet, too; blistering light which made eyes –...

Cormorant

on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums

Kingfisher III

I am too weak now
to push the broken shells
away from my bed
so I sleep
in the bodies of our children
& dream of what they could have been