This is the poetry of a man who once was: and who once was very beautifully. A beautiful man – who once being, is no longer.

It tells his story, his most intimate story. It tells the story of his sexual abuse by three people: people who entered his life and in doing what they did, have now proceeded to do everything they can to hide their roles in the damage they performed on him, behind their very closed doors.


Of slight

Where half a word

Destroys like

Hoarse of



A day of utter


In seconds that cry

An asunder of tears.

Three is my number

Of pain.


Tree my vehicle

Of universal


No longer wanting

The aggression of


No longer prepared

To acknowledge

This need.

And where tree

Once gave impression

That three might be

Salvation of two,

I now know far better:

And a once, twice, thrice

Equal brutalisation

Of any manhood

I ever had

Is what my life

Has thought me;

Has taught me;

Has ought me.




The saw

And seen

And been

Of frosty hoar.

What my life

Has bequeathed me.

What my love

Has bewreathed me.

What my cipher

Has deceived me.


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