Name: Percy Wells
country : New Zealand
bio: 22-years old, living in Germany; linguist, writer, illustrator; started writing verse around age 9 and began publishing at age 16; influenced prominently by afflicting Bipolar Disorder.


Jo !

Born two-hundred years too late,
his tongue drips ink, a fitting cate--
'tis bitter brandy burnt of bards,
poor poets and their plumage pards.
And all the better that it pour
from musty gob to dusty floor,
lest it drown this old of young
and let him die of writer's lung.

Cruelly Erotic

That shower, water shattering
Against your tight, young skin
Is in it's imitation flattering,
(The reflections, such permitted sin)
And you fail to see even this.
Oh how gladly I'd feel your abyss
Enshroud my whole bod in its membrane,
And make envious the deplorable sane.
You tempt like a fattened pig
Who refuses to die; or a healthy fig
So robust as to have ascended
So high as to have offended
The sky, too intimately near--
Unable to be reached, denied me.
You go on with a secretive fleer,
Oblivious still to what I see.

A Wish for You

At the other end of an infant's cock-eyed stare,
You sit content, noticing everything
But that what your senses perceive.
The world you see around you
Has meaning, and purpose, and reason.
But the one that you live in does not.
Your eyes are honey-glazed,
Blinding you from the reality needed
To bring the tears needed
To peel them naked.
It takes such effort to go on living and yet
Even a want for death was left at attempts
Until this moment.
I hope for you that you find peace, too.
One day, when no one wants anything of you,
And you want nothing of anyone else,
And your only torment is yourself,
And you require no more
Than a cricket's practiced scream
To startle you from that discomfort.
Shoot You
Does simple water cleanse the sins
Which dirty, bloody hate begins?
Attempted try, a bit at first...
Just barely does it quench my thirst.
Drink once of dirt, and blood and hate--
Though bitter as they be--
Don't think about your future fate,
Just drink then pose for me.
Your soul itself won't go for much,
It needs a slight artistic touch.
And just a piece with that would do
To make you even liking you.
The blood and dirt and wretched hate?
Too much for me, I'll not tempt fate,
Upon my shoulders is a head!
You drink them up for me instead.

Imprisoned and Pleased: An Ode to an Addiction

A chemical? - I can't adore you enough
To write you a poem, so I'll only write words.
This so-called poison you're made up of
Is all that calms anymore these birds.
So how and why can it be wrong
To love you caref'lly, bring you along
Through all these jagged obstructions collectively
Called life, thrown at me objectively
By some hating and hated creature above?
I swear you're deserving of all of my love,
Even if tomorrow, when you're dead,
I'll have quite different convictions in my head.
Still as any good and co-dependent friend,
I shall continue to revive you and to tend
To you, for all the sacrifice of self it is to me,
For only in your gyves do I feel free.