as long as nobody hears about this in Leicester

how sick in that
final moment
that you would
have to watch

your sister’s hands
ash-grey: a baker
measuring flour,
baking soda, salt.

but the agent
says it’s a
gesture, dear,
not a recipe

and you could not speak
to beg separate eternity.

defined: Ortonesque

The Lover
left a note;
“If you read his diary,
all will be explained,”

before

The Lover
bestowed nine hammered
kisses, took
twenty-two Nembutal
tabs and
sixteen ounces
canned grapefruit syrup.

still

The Lover
cooled first,
naked, in a shared
Islington flat,

while

The Loved
slept, imagining life
without nightmares.

“married, buried”

Note: sadly, I still have no idea how to indent lines. this poem is not flush left margin in what I would consider to be its right form. also, the title should be italicized. again, formatting knowledge fail.

crowned golden prince
of grunge on a disingenuous throne;
the unsolicited by-product of
instincts, altered chemistry,
esurient critics, bleach.
a history abridged by spirit.
your empathy
exploited, sensitivity
squandered.

you only gave Polly a throat,
a voice of her own.
yet you held the blame
for these hideous things.
your syllogism:
you wrote the song,
the song wrote the sin...
but those wasted eggs
sang something not the same.
the act changed intentions;
fully realized the wrong.

talent takes
and takes
and takes from
the brain, leaves
waste, cassette tapes,
blame for all you heard.
the generosity
of what’s wrought by genius,
the gall, the glib violence,
venom grafted into veins.

then something’s more a sin
about that shot;
you set suicide’s standard.

and they flocked to seattle

like they didn’t see it coming
like you hadn’t already given
all apologies in the world
like the story wasn’t
a tragedy since the beginning.

chanteuse

for Ashleigh

you
pursue that liquid groove
in pluvial elusivity,

and I,

I just want to be your body
to feel you inhale—
and eluviate dichroic, dual moves to:
exuviate epithelials,
liaise with the muses—

and deify myself
in the sweat
that clings to your skin.

mesothelioma

Man’s got
mesozoic bones
and miso soup for organs.
This thief
steals months and years,
leaves stones and jewels
turned over.
Messy tunes
peal out to confused ears.
Left this stolen moment
with hospital Jell-o.

limbs

limb I
paint-by-numbers
in precise lines
and imprecise eyes
miss the art of it,
see only science
and medicine.
that sanguine media sings
“hallelujah.”

limb II
alien and animal,
it invades the skin
by threes and fives;
bubbles and cracks.
magma epidermis.
a symptom,
perhaps,
of geology below.

limb III
pink fish skin,
bloodless scales,
rendered in impasto
and bas-relief.
the moonlit mark,
this criss-cross canvas,
hatched pale and shadow
and scar.

a number of things

This is a few older poems that I'm considering including in my portfolio. Are they worth including? What do you think?