Loathe to try and give background on poetry given that everyone will get from it what they’ll get and any message I have should be contained in the verse. But, as you lose a lot of context online when you don’t (necessarily) know the author and can’t hear a reading […]
Rough Draft
20 posts
I try my best not to make any value judgements when it comes to suicide, although usually I fail. Whatever the motivations, no matter how understandable they may be, the ramifications will always hit harder. The living, after all, have a lot longer to have to deal with it. Anyway… […]
She was turning into Forrest Gump, it was worrying. Not least because Tom Hanks freaked her out, she strongly suspected he was secretly a psychopath. He had that look about him, for all the saccharine emoting he’d probably still kill a man for cutting in front of him in a […]
An anonymous observer saw a world of concrete clouds floating freely through the city paths all narrowed down Between the weight of presence and the lightness of the gone a world revolved around them all no more real than a song. Enjoy it? Support a struggling artist, buy my book!
A clouded breath floats drifting from urban peaks flooding streets made valleys Enjoy it? Support a struggling artist, buy my book!
Well now she’s gone perhaps to die The bastard Me never paused to ask why I walked away with all the rest imagining my hidden best. But fuck the writer and fuck the words a flimsy shield of flimsy verse Because when I write I make myself a better man […]
Stare long enough and you’ll get square eyes or tarmac, brick and concrete ones as the outside bleeds in and makes a city of your insides. All natural, all artificial – the way it’s meant to be. With buses for blood congested by the mass of walkers and seldom circulating […]
My attempt to re-hash something I wrote a long time ago. Freedom is eternal. Or so some bastard said. I asked him for his reason, ‘well we’re not yet dead’ I pointed to our walls, our chains, our jobs, our debts. He flashed a smile and looked at me Well […]
So this country is an island this city a thousand more this street another dozen maybe fewer, maybe more A thousand scowling natives a thousand untapped mines a thousand golden towers a thousand untold crimes And I’m Vasco da Gama, sometimes Cortés on the shore struggling to stake new claims […]
Nothing worse than Whitey from a different country idly writing pretentious poetry about events thousands of miles away. But hey, spirit of the season eh? A flying fist is a fiery thing A thousand tanks are not A dying child makes good print A thousand dead just rot An explosive […]