There is an American in my heart,
for good and ill,
for death-drunk nights and
cheaper thrills,
There is an American inside my brain,
coring and boring, silently,
a worm veining the lumber,
There is an American in my soul,
yearning to be free, to
exult, and
to subdue the world.

Roses Are

Roses are and
Roses aren’t and
all that lay between is
the flicker of a moment;
that universal gardener,
weeding and succoring,
cultivating now, only to
appreciate a fragrance
before the frost smothers all.


No mother asks to birth a martyr,
no father wants to know his son
will stain the hands of wicked men
only to prove a point.
No country ought to need more martyrs,
perhaps paradise is nothing but
a place nobody needs to die for;
but how deep are the bones it is built on?

The Waves

All the waters of the world are mingling in the sea,
and rage against the stonework as they clash into the lee.
Do the stones feel much compassion?
Could they regret their role?
Or must beating down the ocean be done without a soul?
It is not for the ocean to wonder after rocks;
The ocean’s duty is to rage,
to rage, and level out.

Ghost In The Walls

much and more was wasted here,
the meat all gone to moulder.
No more dreams to feed on here,
no coals left to smolder.
I have been dead for far too long,
far longer than I lived.
I focus on that one good day –
that shimmer in the sieve –
and at the hour when the moon looks down
the world admires her horrid frown;
I laugh and shriek and scratch my arms and
try to think up greater harms and
outside, outside, the snow lay silent
streetlights whisper:
the dead riot.


Nations are built on the bones of their heroes,
who rage as they’re pushed to the grave;
with shrieking,
and striking,
and choking on earth
all before the foundation is laid.

Said the man at the fore of the black-banded crowd,
“I imagine it’s lovely to die as a hero,
draped by a star-spangled shroud.”