Poetry

Briefly 

I am Briefly and completely 

All-consumed by an 

Immediate and horrific 

Rage 

At the state of my life 

At the state of life 

“And what do you do to soothe this ailment” 

Nothing. 

Why change my understanding 

My fleeting 

Unnerving 

Burning 

Hatred 

And passion 

For what is before me 

For what makes me, 

Me.

This crippling 

And violent 

Ferocity 

Which blinds me to all the 

 Colours of the day 

And fills me with nothing but grey 

In grey you see all, 

What should, what could, 

What must have been,

Once. 

I could never change that. 
Bask in the anger. 

Bask in the pure fury 

Of the moment 
For that, is truly
Me. 

Poetry

Nudes 

Send me your heart,
Your soul.
Don’t show me your body,

Don’t be like everyone else.
Push me,

Make me ache,
Make me feel for you in ways your body

Simply can’t.

 

Show me more.

Be more than skin

And blood.

And bone.

 

Be naked in the truest form of the word:

Show me your fears,

Show me your pain,
Let me see what tears at you,
What keeps you up at night

In the witching hours,

Your primal side

 

And then

When you are nothing,

 

I will see you nude.

Poetry

To be 

A man, 

As a writer is to 
Make love 
Sensuously
Or to fuck 
The meaning 
Blindly from 
My words.
But as a woman, ah 
As a woman 
As a writer is to 
Give birth 
To make the very shapes of my worlds 
To feel every heart within my womb 
Lovingly 
And share a brief fragment of myself 
To everyone unworthy of 
My being. 

Poetry

I dated a girl 

With “enough is enough” 
Tattooed on her arms 
On her spine was “is” 
So when they were apart 
Each arm was 
Enough. 
But her spine – 
Her spine was 
IS her spine 
IS her body
IS her soul 
IS 
Is to be more than here 
She was where she was 
But she is: 
Life 
Effort 
A good fuck 
When the world caved in 
She was the universe 
If every second is 
If every breath is 
She was enough

Poetry

Writer’s Block

There comes a point

Where you look at yourself and think:

This is it.

 

This is where it ends.

 

Every word you put out is toxic, it comes back at you

As something else

 

None of its right.

 

Because you can’t write

And your god given gift of being a god

In every world you write

Is stricken

 

With your inability to

Put the pen to paper – stop being such a slacker!

 

Have a drink, take a hit

Might as well, everything you’ve been scratching down

 

Has gone to shit.

 

It’s different when a writer can’t write,

Sure, maybe the sun is still bright –

But for a dreadful moment, you’re normal.