Poem #100



An–, GREEK: without.

–Orexis, GREEK: appetite.

It’s true enough.

I lost my hunger for just about everything:

Love, fun, people.

I hungered only for hunger,

And hunger meant control.


I probably would have dragged

My unfed muscles

Across a mile of

Shattered Willow pattern crockery,

Just to hit a calorie deficit.


And what do we see,

Depicted in said fragments?

A father’s consternation, blue.

A sister’s muted concern, white.

Friends smashed, morals smashed,

My feet blooded, a celery heart in each hand.




Writing on the topic proves challenging.

Not emotionally– I’m a certified sharer–

But pragmatically.


My brain’s changed;

I find it hard now to pull on that old suit–

It’s a tight fit.



Poem #26

Two gentlemen- this, at least,

We can confirm, that they are gentlemen-

Confer beneath the projector.

Whether they are here to critique,

Or come off-peak, like Tuesday noon,

Or bought out all two-sixteen seats

To secure themselves exclusive views,

We cannot say.

I only fear they come here for me,

To watch peel from my sweaty legs

The Batman pyjamas, to hear me,

In thought, curse the thermostat,

Which I am too tired to rise

And turn clockwise.

Poem #24

I resent the term push-up; it’s


I press myself to carpet with


I hold the contraction, until

Up. Three.

I like to pretend, on my

Way up,

That my breath assists with

The lift,

As if I were a hovercraft,


Ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s