The Phoenix

To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I become that other thing,

a burnt offering, the phoenix of new beds


Every dawn I rise,

like an early-bird casualty,

minus the worm


Free from the hook which dangles

torn from the root,

which strangles


I’m burning like volcanoes,

on this field of scarecrows,

letting only the blackest birds through


this is what happens when they love you,

when they love, love, love

until your hands turn to onyx


When they cremate your kisses,

when they incinerate your caresses,

until your love

turns charcoal,

turns molten,

turns furious,

turns to dust,

turns to fentanyl,

turns to spider veins,

turns to an abscess,

turns gangrene,

turns obscene,

turns promiscuous,

turns to Jesus,

turns to slot machines,

turns to rye & Coke,

turns to a joke,

turns to switchblades,

turns to serenades,

turns to balustrades,

turns Parisian,

turns bohemian,

turns Bourgeois,

turns kamikaze,

turns to classical music,

turns tragic,

turns to death glares,

turns Greek,

turns to a woman,

turns to a man,

turns intellectual,

turns transsexual,

turns to PTSD,

turns to LSD,

turns to pyromaniacs,

turns to panic-attacks,

turns to chain-smoking,

turns to choking,

turns to BDSM,

turns to therapists,

turns to artists,

turns to Carcinoma,

turns to a college diploma,

turns to dyslexia,

turns to anorexia,

turns to insomnia,

turns to candle holders,

turns to cold shoulders,

turns to sinew,

turns to a Jew,

turns to frost,

turns into a holocaust,

the sort of holocaust that

only a phoenix could survive


nothing will extinguish my flame!


To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I’ve turned into this other thing instead,

the firebird who makes of your pale offerings;


something incandescent,

something iridescent,

something phosphorescent,


something glowing,


something growing in spite of your wrongs,

something with deathless feathers

and tattooed songs.



Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

16 responses to “The Phoenix

  1. You’re so good I want to never write again. That is so good because nobody makes me feel that way.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The “turns to” are just fucking amazing!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This; turns to fentanyl,

    turns to spider veins,

    turns to an abscess,

    turns gangrene,

    turns obscene,

    turns promiscuous,

    turns to Jesus,

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I want to scream this is so so so so well done!!!! NEVER EVER quit

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Something with deathless feathers. I’m going to bite my fingers off. You socked this one outta the freakin park!!!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I was happy w my poem Beneath Your Coat but after reading this I need to go back in time and live again before I dare … You take my breath away

    Liked by 1 person

    • no! That is a wonderful poem.


      • YOU. YOU. I’m SO glad you write.


      • Just never stop ok? You’re the only person I know who should NEVER stop writing

        Liked by 1 person

      • k deal. I am only getting started. I haven’t even really begun yet in all reality. I am still trying to find my voice while studying the craft, but I do feel I am beginning something, or on the verge of something. I feel in a race against that metal clicking thing with hungry turning hands…and those phony coloured paper promises, otherwise I’d live in poems, consume copious amounts of coffee, never sleep and chain smoke until my heart’s content…or until it stopped like a clock.


      • The only way. I feel you are too. I’ve always believed in your writing. How many years have I said that? Ten? I meant it. I want to encourage you. Beyond my usual tendency to encourage. To encourage you because I know I’m right about you. Yeah you’ve begun, it’s in your damn blood. It always was. All the suffering. Your last poem proves this. You turn pain into art. Why do you think we bonded so fast and furious? I saw it then as I do now. You’re the Phoenix.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Thank you C. I knew that. I appreciate it more than you could know. It is the one place I can grow and learn and hold to when all else fails me , as all is doomed. Poets do not live in the now, they may flutter about in it when creating, but they are not of it, somehow beyond it, somehow immortal like that phoenix.


      • Just never deny yourself writing. Because of everyone I know and I have read a lot of today’s writers, your work is one I can’t get over, it pierces me. You have a really rare gift. Many call themselves writers but they’re just not. They’re deluding themselves. You don’t call yourself a writer but if you’re not, then quite simply, nobody is.

        Liked by 1 person

  7. This echoes ”They, All of them, know.” by Bukowski and ”Anathema” by Daquin…


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