Weird Poetry

I saw my heart and soul

Fly by my balcony this morning

In the bodies of a pair of geese.

They were flying separately,

But as one.

They flew across a backdrop of urban grey and cloud-filled sky,

Yet I saw only sun

Where there previously was none.





Weird Poetry

Eat me up!

30% off your first plate —

And if you finish it,

The next one is free!

I’m your 3-course meal,

I’m your all-you-can-eat buffet!

Go on!

Take a nibble

Or gobble me whole

Until there is nothing left

But blood, bones and gristle.




Mound of Hostages

Weird Poetry

It held me captive,

The Mound of Hostages,

And it entered me

[interred me]

Like a band of sunlight through the windowbox

[like a ray of ash at sunset, settling upon the worms and the dirt].

I swelled like the earth

Above me

And below —


Pregnant with moon,

Full to the brim

And emptying at once.




*** Revisiting Irish passage tombs…. ***

Snake Spit

Weird Poetry

I left you with nothing but blisters on your split tongue

As you spat letters soaked in my name upon the dirt.

You laced your cutting saliva with acid,

And draped it in bubbly strands on the bending blades of grass —

Hoping my ankles might graze your dripping spite —

When I left you behind with your sores and your ache.




Bruised Bone

Weird Poetry

A bruised bone not yet supped of its tender marrow

Is nothing more

Than a soul tethered to the material that conceived it,

Waiting for the moment it returns

To the mouth.

It’s a smiling frown staring stark into the night-tainted sky

Without noting the stars

Just yet.

You’ll never know me by name —

You’ll never know me by the initials carved into my veins;

You can only ever know the exhaling and the sighing you refuse to hear,

Breaths left behind in the dust motes hanging on the breeze,

Or morsels of marrow

Left cold on a chipped porcelain plate

Outside of your door.




*** Sometimes I don’t know how poetry works. ***


Weird Poetry

He holds his pastel,

Delicately pinched

Between calloused thumb, middle and forefinger,

And rubs it into the paper,

Toiling to capture

Her pain,

Her beauty —

The second pronounced

Because of the first.

She was his seventh subject

That year


What you cannot see

From her portrait

Is the source of her pain

[He added in some shading of his own]

That intensified her beauty,

That intensified the colours

He specially selected

For the curated display of her suffering —

Like a broken masterpiece.

Upon completion,

He tosses her aside

Into a cemetery of spent pastel nubs,

And can now use his harrowing composition

To attract his next subject.




Other People’s Poetry: Sexton’s Metaphors

Weird Poetry

She compared words to swarming bees,

Sometimes to dead ones also,

With their emptied eyes and yellow husk bodies.

To her,

Her infant child’s lips were animals,

Little hungry thirsty animals

Hoping to find warmth in cold institutional beds

Where there isn’t any.




*** I discovered Anne Sexton and her poetry, and it has already inspired more than a few poems. Everyone talks about Sylvia Plath…. There were other mad contemporaries just as good if not better. ***

Muse in Malachite

Weird Poetry

Your viridescent soul

Tats through the chambers of my heart

A lace of lush leafy longing

Tinged with emerald,

Blinding my eyes with a verdant glow

That only you can wear.

You encircle me



[Until crushed to dust by time]

Just like the monochromatic bands

On a perfectly polished specimen

Of malachite.




*** It better be polished… because malachite is quite toxic in its raw state, Angel Eyes. ***

*** You always ruin the moment, Peanut Gallery. ***


Weird Poetry

“I can’t have you slipping through my fingers,” he said with a crinkled brow from his silent place of speaking which found itself behind the veil.

“Well, shit.” she replied to the Aether, “I guess I shouldn’t have slathered all of this glossy coconut oil into my skin then.”





Weird Poetry

It will be

An exorcism

By fire —

Burning inky black words


Charring countless pages —

Their dog-eared corners curling in the coals

And fuming with spent ghosts and emptied soul-hells

That aren’t even mine.

I am

No longer in possession

Of those words and pages.

They are as gone as my mind was

Before I struck the match

And threw it into the stove.




*** More fire, Sweet Cheeks? Not bored of it yet? ***

*** I think I am done with fire now… but not for long. Never for long…. ***