The Poetorialist
December 2011 Featured Poet

Anthony Desmond

Anthony Desmond
Anthony Desmond is a twenty year old Detroit born writer now residing in Center Line, Michigan. Raised and homeschooled by his single mother, he first discovered a gift for writing at the age of sixteen. He firmly believes his talent is God given and he is but a vessel for a higher power who shares this selfsame passion for the written word.

Desmond describes his work as "eccentric, abstract.” He is intrigued by pain & sadness, and he explores these emotions across a wide array of subject areas; politics, death, religion, the struggles of everyday life. His bold statement pieces are often dark, granular observations of the world he inhabits.

Anthony believes in testing the limits of the permissible. His poetry is honest, unadulterated and breaches the norms of the expected. His pen is sharp and he is loathe to hold back on a thought or feeling, even at the risk of offending his reader. In his view self-censorship is the surest way to weaken the power of his craft.

His work has been praised by the likes of Erykah Badu and Terry McMillan. His hero is the legendary figure of dark poetry, Frank Stanford. 

Anthony Desmond's poetry can be found in online magazines and his own blog Glassstaircases.  He Twitters at @iamEPanthony


This old apartment quarantined and abandoned
Housing bloody mirrors and spotless walls
For a decent distraction
They say a wounded spirit never leaves its home
I must turn myth to legend in a bed of flesh and bone
As I walk alone dragging a loved one through dirt
I, a gravedigger, let his demons spread like cancer
Rotting fumes with every raindrop
The scent of lust at its coldest
I shall sacrifice purity for endless orgasm
And love what so many can't bear to accept

The precious gem of vanity
Slit my throat in the name of validation if master asked
A pouring of blood beautifully
Displayed in a riedel wine glass
Each sip dribbling down the side of your mouth
And into the pocket of your handsome face
My instincts are cannibal as I witness
A slow, rotting, fine paste
I found pleasure in the cum filled asshole
Of a malignent asshole
It should be filled with maggots
I should be filled with guilt
Not gazing at my master like he wasn't
A fucking human being
More like a victim of distress
Ripped from head to base like torture to a rapist
Master held me close
Leaving his mark like a cicatrix
Stark naked and soft
His veins pulsate as if their yearning
For crack cocaine
He's addicted, as I,
An eternal sleeper on a cot of decomposed forgiveness


Our skin twists like Lynchian art
As my pores widen and
Long for the scent of your hair
The length of my heart doesn't compare
Rinse my scars in a shower of
Blood, sweat and tears
While the stains on my brittle bones
Last beyond the years
Abstract is the flesh beneath
Your shoulder blades
Cut me open and lay inside my cage
Whispers of pale pink against dark red
Under the melanin of your brown skin
Far from a curse
For you, I am a fool
A bitter juniper pond, I wait to immerse

© Anthony Desmond * 2011 * All Rights Reserved


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