November 15, 2018
Available elsewhere, and from Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Poems-John-Tottenham/dp/1878923293/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1542304597&sr=8-1&keywords=the+hate+poems&dpID=41FfGSl2GOL&preST=_SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch
“In elegantly-wrought laments of self-loathing and mean-spirited love poems, the author finds that he has more to say on already exhausted subjects, and gives voice to the kind of thoughts most people prefer not to express but will nevertheless automatically relate to and be entertained by. Tottenham has staked out a singular terrain where egotism and self-loathing meet, where futility merges with urgency, and beauty is created out of bitterness. If nothing else, he furnishes proof that a poet maudit can still, if not thrive, at least survive, alive and unwell, in this benighted age.”
– from the introduction, by Louis Pipe
Posted in Hate Poems, Self-pity, Shameless self-promotion |
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September 1, 2018
“I love you,” she says,
and my heart sinks.
Knowing what is required of me,
I attempt to reciprocate.
But it’s a struggle,
the words won’t take shape.
No other phrase is so hard to articulate;
no other sentiment is voiced so apprehensively.
I could be honest and say: I love you
but almost everything about you annoys me…
But somehow
those three precious, perilous syllables
are squeezed out, squeamishly:
“Isle… of you.”
It never sounds right when I say it,
but I say it
to put her at ease,
because what you get out of it,
temporarily,
is peace.
Posted in Antiepithalamia, Emptyscapes |
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March 7, 2016
I stared at you with lust, pity and loathing,
otherwise known as love:
projecting my fantasies on to your realities,
in the hope of spoiling
this hazy embodiment of desire
with pointless needs.
Another incarnation of immateriality
that becomes a necessity:
demanding some sort of release.
Posted in Antiepithalamia |
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February 23, 2015
I marvel at my feelings,
but I don’t trust them.
I’m dazzled by her,
but I don’t trust her either.
I’m not sure that she even likes me.
Which is fine, I don’t like her much either.
Posted in Antiepithalamia |
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February 8, 2015
It’s that time of year again.
Posted in Antiepithalamia, Shameless self-promotion |
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August 11, 2013
Often, around the middle of a week day afternoon,
I find myself considering the connection
between sexual and creative energy.
Torn by futile lusts, I seek refuge
from the vagueness of the day
and the promise of endeavor
in reliable memories and fantasies
that spill, reliably, into sleep.
Posted in Inertia Variations |
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February 14, 2013
I want you to want to give me pleasure.
I want you to be satisfied by my satisfaction.
I am excited by the thought of your being excited by me.
Please understand that these feelings you inspire in me
are a tribute to your qualities.
Posted in Antiepithalamia, Scratchy Ink Drawings |
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January 13, 2013
There are no levees capable
of withstanding the torrents of distraction
that surge through my mind. Tender
resentments, useless trivia and tired lusts
are carried along like debris on a swollen river,
from which, very occasionally, a lucid thought
emerges – only to be sucked back down
into the sewage of pettiness and vanity.
Posted in Inertia Variations |
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May 3, 2012
We lie side by side, basking in the warm glow
Of an attraction tempered by considerations
Of age and failure. The window of opportunity narrows
As irresolution asserts itself. Perhaps you would be offended,
Puzzled and disgusted by such an intrusion.
It might be asking too much of anybody:
To stanch this thirst, no longer sweet,
And dwindling into hesitation.
Posted in Antiepithalamia |
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John Tottenham 