John Grey poetry


She can’t love me
but her dog can bite me.
That’s where our relationship stands.
No hugs, no kisses,
but a chunk jerked out of my leg
by crazed teeth,
a spurt of blood,
a great pain above the ankle.
“That’s not like him,”
she says.
And it’s not like her, I’m sure.
But I’m like me.
And it hurts.


Fans in Brazil
decapitate a referee.
That’ll teach him
for blowing his whistle.

Soon enough
kids will be beheading a teacher
to put a stop to American history
or hacking the head off the weatherman
so it’ll be sunny the coming weekend.

The source
of what we don’t want to hear
is all too obvious,

It’s the movement of a jaw,
the manipulation of a larynx,
and tongue wagging.

Go for the throat
and it’s all to the good.

Blood gushing from a billion necks –
that’s all the
advice and information
you’ll never need.

there’s no lie
while the truth’s still bleeding.

© John Grey