The Booth

I've had men, old and lonely,
think my body beautiful
simply for its youth,
their beaten, dead breath
on my chest, on my belly,
calls up the worst in me,
my young old self scandalized
in their hateful eyes.

Consequence

A monk in a one man monastery,
burdened to till a field of echoes,
plant memories, harvest shadows.

Alone, in a revolving room
adorned with plastic figures,
I am undecided.

Maria and her Era

When I was feared and desired,
before my truth placed me in exile,
I wore her and her friends as ornaments, as flaming leaves
on a burning tree.

Before I knew I was no better
than the men before me,
that I could not best those to come,
I was an erogenous sting.

Now I know a good fuck is futile,
promises made between the sheets
die beneath the pillow.

^

Biography

Peter Crombie is hoping to use poetry to make the world rethink its images of sensuality. He is currently sstudying to become a teacher of English literature at the university level and hopes that academia will not hamper his creativity. He has been published on the web and has a chapbook available.