So a couple of volumes of my poetry are available to buy online. Paperback should still even reach you before Christmas if you hurry and order now. And you can have it on Kindle in a whisper.
US readers: get it here.
And UK readers from here.
Available from here in the US…
… or here in the UK.
It’s available everywhere in the world, but it would have taken forever to link every single Amazon site by country. A cursory search will turn it up, wherever you are.
I wrote this piece about two years ago. Brexit and Trump (and by extension the whole resurgence and validation of so much hate-filled right-wing ideology) had me questioning a lot of things about the world, our values systems and what the future holds for us as a species. Sadly, I haven’t found many answers since.
I guess this is my contribution to modern-day Western scar literature.
It’s always two minutes to midnight,
and we’re always in the Garden of Gethsemane.
I don’t remember when
moonlight started to burn like this, but
it seems like this is all there is, maybe all
there ever was, ever will be.
The brain has never felt more like
spoiling meat, nor the excoriated soul itself
more reassuringly transient,
as we dance these slow, sad waltzes
with mute, irradiated ghosts
beneath the branches of the doveless olive trees.
The night is sharp with splinters and iodine
and other traumas. Muffled voices, raised
in song: listen! they are singing inside
the fallout shelters. Ash drifts like
apple blossom. Wolf skeletons relearn the
ability to howl. Everything we fear
is inevitable. Much of it has
already happened. And maybe tomorrow
won’t bring betrayal, crucifixion or torture, just
something like agony,
Poem my own
Image: “The Moon” by Hare Raising Designs