…and then she died during a fierce heatwave
Flat lined, tomb side
‘Toss my ashes to the northern lights
to drift among birches and be buried by snow’
Arrested for Drink Dreaming
Poured myself into vodka puddles
hoping for tender poetry rain,
but words were mere reflection
in dripping water on gravestones
Talking to the Murdered About Poetry
She said:
‘I like your poetry
but hate your poems’
so wrote her lipstick love letter
down spine of another
We Are the Last Europeans
Lonely in Barcelona
panic attack Paris
Munich madness
Rome whores,
continent drifts as
snow over girl singing in car wreckage
Destination Sunset Boulevard & Other Cheap Thrills
I’s good to have an end
to journey towards
but it’s the journey which
matters, in the end.
Come fly…
Cigarettes After Sex?
Empty ashtray
unstruck matches
scratches from cruellest wind
holds your presence in door rattles,
smoke semaphore for blind to taste
Room #127
Spreading her legs, mine in between
Outside, traffic halts
Bed pinned, tongues flayed
Outside, does her husband sit in traffic?








Fantastic!
Phenomenally penned, Ghosteen. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian