Pretty Boys make Graves

I want to laff

When you forget to say


Not arfter

You poor middle class barstard

Of course, you are better than me-

You are pretty, young and male

You speak to me kindly

But your eyes never meet mine

Are you afraid that I might perceive

Your crystal blue lies

Or, perhaps, you fear infection

From the wounds I wear


I may be the self proclaimed sooth slayer

Of all unnatural disasters

But your inauthenticity makes me smile

Hope someone sweeps you up

From the ground

Like surplus dust, when you fall

From facade’s hand


Who knows not



On an absence of love…

I am too old for love
Worn out, like last year’s aged slippers
I lament the drunken nights I spent
Within the naked reach of pleasure

Beyond the call of the mistress of misery
Whose fragile waist I clasp
Fearful of descent beneath the bellow of her underskirts
I am secure in the certainty of my own solitude

Contemptuous of the art of living
Death wishes are, but my faux pleasure
I am too old for love
But young enough to die choking on my words

Like an emasculated poet