beauty, books, masculinity, poetry, women


What lived here,Sometimes I am prone to envy,Of those who slip away,Give up, lay down and scrabbleBecause failure cuts deep,And you can sustain an infinite amountOf wounds without dying,Here, a place visited,As much a church to meAs any library,But I’ve survived the worst combinations of love and hate,And listen to me,You can too, because there’s a savage,quiet joyin advancing your position,Because the world knocks me off myFeet and I get up,Because I know what a bastard I can be,And those parts of me,They don’t offer sympathy,So much competition,So little reward,But I’m the product of a million year’s evolution,And as much as I love the woods,There are more stages now,And as a bastard in remission,I enter into the fray,Offer my art and soul,Heart and sole,Offered that I’ve been an asshole, tooBut I’m working onBeing destroyed by itReturning, scarred but smiling,And a squirrel climbs a treeGood omensFor the week ahead,Home now,Light and warmth,Smiles which compel me towards the end of the seasonAmbitions and empires no shelterCouldEverContain.My book Until She Sings is out now.



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