How many times?

Weird Poetry

How many times

Did you throw yourself to the ground

And scream into the earth?

How many times

Did you think that death would feel better

Than this?

How many times

Did you hear the cracks and crevasses

Roar open up in your sore and weakened heart muscle?

How many times

Did you slam your fists onto any available flat surface?

How many times

Did you smile through your anguish

And turn your face into a mask?

How many times

Did you have to stare those bastard demons

In their ugly cruel faces

As they tried to taint and tarnish your thoughts?

How many times

Did you cry

In private

And in public?

Tell me.

How many times?





Weird Poetry

I used to let you look into my glacier-flecked eyes and watch my tears gather;

But now I can’t even bring myself to open them.

I used to let your fingers take long walks through the forest of my chestnut hair;

But now all I can think of is raping my locks and wild curls,

And leaving the earth barren and bruised.

I used to let my senses light up like fireflies on balmy July nights;

But now numb feels better and more reassuring.

I used to let your nocturnal whispers explore my fractals and my folds as you took my breathe away;

But now all of my hidden dimensions collapse whenever you cross my heart.

I used to let you peel my skin away and crack open my rib cage so you could get at the mush of me,

Dig your hands and fingers into the muck and mire of me;

But now, my scars have hardened

And I am not so easily pulled apart anymore.




*** Poor baby…. ***

Strand of Light

Weird Poetry

I plucked a strand of your hair

And swallowed it.

You’re so bright in shadow,

I thought that if I could have a piece of you

For myself,

Just one strand,

Just one cell,

And integrate it into my being,

That I too could hold the same measure of light and shade

That you do.




*** Jesus… got any crackers to go with the cheese, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** Oh trust me… I’ve got plenty! ***


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. ***