I want poetry that gushes aloe

I’m stirring with prose,
speak only in gushing aloe to me,
ink me a letter that wreaks of agar and leather,
pained in cinnamon and crimson,
but let it be tender,
like a lash falling,
let it be real,
rolling thunder calling,
whisper your dialogue,
a silk worm crawling,
cut to the marrow of me,
a scimitar mauling.

Where are your words you claim to heal with,
that float like perfumed dew drops,
that sooth and hurt and clot?
I want your words to clot,
if it means silence until you find the right ones,
the right way,
or if it means violence with everything undone,
be aloe with what you say.



revoltedMy safe space,
my comfort zone,
is too taboo,
so I have to do it alone.

So long as I keep my hyper masculinity on my sleeves,
like bulging biceps or an inflated chest,
I can keep my emotions buried and hidden,
between this fleshen nest.

Men can’t be both,
we’re either too soft,
or too hard,
too together,
or too apart,
fragmented into convenient bits and lots,
able to be filed and sorted into slots,
convenient for comfort,
but let those feelings rot.

Keep them buried,
leave the platform for the meek,
let women herald the stage,
as for men,
leave their emotions only worthy,
for ink on a page.


What’s up with that huh?
Can’t a burly bloke walk the lines of poetic prowess,
whilst like a gorilla, size you up, fisticuffs ready and beat his chest?

Anxiety bomb

My anxiety is an axe murderer,
with a flower in its hand,
it urges me to slay my self,
with ill will and poetic demand,
and bitters and salt,
and honey and malt,
grains of irreconcilability through me,
malleable like mountains, in desert sands.

It’s wanting to read a book,
at the same time as another book,
and another book,
and not a page at a time,
but all the pages all the time,
so you’re defeated and read none of them.

Yes, its a decision to be indecisive,
it’s corrosive, dismissive, yet oh so inclusive,
we can’t filter out what matters,
because everything matters at once.

Anxiety is knowing you have two loaded fists,
unafraid of the world before you,
choosing to be passive,
but beating yourself to death.

It’s knowing the every crevice of my skin,
aching for its touch,
but not letting anyone in,
enticed by, but so afraid of sin.

What world am I living in,
how can I ever win,
when the dichotomy of existence,
lies between procrastination and doing,
smudged prose and is paper thin.

It’s the ambassador, the host of the party,
who invites everyone in,
locks the door,
says welcome, and pulls the pin.


If they knew




And we’ve created an industry out of it haven’t we,
this exhaustive parade,
this acceptance that it can be said,
or poetic,
can be sung,
or artistic,
and that,
is an acceptable metric.

The crowd will cheer,
the crowd will roar,.
and out of it all,
my ego will soar,
more, ever more,
another score,
encore, encore.


-expiry date

expiry date


for every poem that leaves you
a part of you dies
here’s to all you long life motherfuckers
artless, heartless and without verse


ahh, the poetry of being
the verses of feeling
the prose of seeing
the vernacular of doing.

the beat of vibration,
the meter of contemplation
the harmony of realisation
the chords of elation

it doesn’t have to be words,
nor the writ,
but at least show us,
that inside something is lit.

tired of this shit,
this empty spit,
prattle, fucken prattle,
insincere, without grit.





owns me

i’ll make poetry my bitch!
until then, i’m its,
like an infection that renders you feverish,
or a scratch at the back of your throat you can’t itch,
it’s there ensuring you serve and obey it.
for us in prose prisons, were slaves,
and to it, submit,
at the end of our wits,
at its beck and call,
decisions, decisions,
what to emit, what to omit,
to reconcile,
and deliver writ.