poetry

Stephanies Son

I’m Stephanies son

Not Brendon

Or Brian

Nor Frank

But her son

And also Brians grandson

Tim’s nephew

Once I was Patsys husband

And I’ll always be

Harley And Scarletts dad

And amidst all those names

Some part of me

Remains apart

Hoping someone will see

If I could fix myself

But, sometimes I wonder

If it’s too late for me

And in the most eloquent

Expressions of anxiety

If one day she’s going to be bored

Of me

But nameless and faceless

I still reach out

Take my hand and tell me

I’m not invisible

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love, masculinity, poetry

Strings of light and shadow

There are moments

Hung suspended

A string of lights

Still lit,

Long past the season,

A few bulbs, dead with time

But sat there,

Bathed in a carnival of light,

All festive colours

Even the cheer has a dim memory,

But the shadows matter as much

As the light they oppose,

And between them both

I sit

And hold your hand

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, women

Driving Me Mad

Grounded by the weight of the

Unresolved lust

Slow and heavy

Almost adolescent with irritated

Acceptance

Coiled and ready to bite

Spit and clutch until

The poison drains away

Never more alive than when

I lean into my hunger

Bend you over and make you gasp

Raw and impolite

As ever, gentle ferocity

And clumsy with release

I struggle to breathe with it

Aware and awake,

Sullen animal with your scent in my nostrils

And, baby girl, it’s driving me

Mad.

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beauty, love, men, poetry, women

Coffee, with demons.

Being good

Practices

Magic spells to ward old devils away

Being able to leave your phone unattended,

Without the low hum of fear

Running nails down your spine

But no one notices

Because you’re supposed to

And no cookies for the bad boy

Who is being a good man,

Coffee with my devils,

Black, no sugar

But he ladles dessert spoons worth,

Into his

She’s asleep,

Could go through and tell her,

But no, goodness is simpler

And I don’t beg

There is no notion of getting lucky

There is

There isn’t

I know magicians

And she told me about

Compassionate compromise

So, in the wan hours of morning,

Sat and talking,

With my demons,

Educated to a point of refinement,

It is almost invisible.

And the only things cut are

The horns from his head,

But sometimes,

They still sting.

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beauty, love, men, poetry

Paternal Column

All now is father,

Bear the pangs

With aplomb

Voice in the throes of

A roar and how much better

To be heard than to find

No one was listening in the first place

Say less, act more,

A little more kindness and gentle ferocity of spirit,

Here, no hope but action.

And when you find weariness

Has the force of gravity,

I will be your column.

No matter how deep the cracks

Go inwards

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poetry, politics

Flat Clown World

Is it the years I’ve lived?

Could be they were mostly ugly times,

Remembered through the veil

Of years,

But the calliope music is loud

Like God requested the age

Be the ridiculousness

And even the fervent gather information

Present it as evidence

Or clutch their pearls in

Masked indignation

And the clouds gather

There has always been the

Threat of rain

But I opened my coat

Come shelter

I’ll tell you stories

Until it passes

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