September 2009
42 posts
glass cases
rhys cornered me last night
over the internet; never an easy feat.
talked to me of the dangers of drugs
little words, patronising
china doll, china doll.
like some little artefact,
handle with care.
nobody gives half a dog’s ass what i think
whether or not i even want to do the shit they say
but rushed conclusions
are far more fun
than facts.
the blues
everyone’s talking about dresses,
clutches, hemlines, formal ties and formalities.
all pretending to be adults in public,
giving sombre, knowing advice to the younger grades
holding hands in private, frightened eyes and words.
in exam week we all bemoan our lot
count down the days and weeks
but in the good moments -
sitting beneath the trees and screaming curses at one another;
...
this place is full of bears.
becalmed
silence
not the healing kind
but pregnant, waiting
running through conversations in our heads
saying half of what we mean,
meaning nothing of what we say.
every tiny change loaded with fear
expectation, fear,
and above all else
the dull roar, the numbness of depression.
this too will pass.
yelling, yelling
meaningless words
over and over again, back and forth
meaningless phrases, each to scream
i hate you, i hate you, i hate you
and back
you hurt me, you hurt me, you hurt me.
neither’s right, and both would die rather than admit it.
i’m going to stay with friends for a few days
take a breath, clear my head.
everything changes.
Streetlight people
exemplary couple of days.
sitting with our legs out of the back windows of carter’s car, drinking soda
to danica’s house, to ben’s flat, to peter’s car, to nia’s parent’s house.
the city’s filled with smoke and dust at the moment
in the afternoon sunlight
everything looks like a perfectly edited photo.
we swerve over a bridge and carter lets go of...
sarcasmsauce with your ironic wit?
going out with lacey today
trying to coerce carter into taxiing us around.
i think, if she’d let him, he’d give anything for us to have a threesome
nobody’s done that yet at our school.
at pippa’s eighteenth, of which we all remember little
somewhere in the dancing, he grabbed my hands and hers
everything was spinning, we were spinning together
spinning, screaming,...
chuck taylor fothermucker
you can’t judge me, he says
wide brown eyes, all freckles and dimples.
hair artfully styled
plaid scarf, skinny jeans
shiny new zippo peeking out the back pocket.
you can’t judge me, lighting a cigarette;
can’t judge me, embracing his cliche with open arms.
i want to gouge his eyes out, and jump his skinny bones.
hipster kid, don’t you know i love you?
put your...
hunter became the hunted
waiting eight months doesn’t make it okay.
getting a haircut, changing your jeans now and again
saying ‘cunt’ less, ‘please’ more
doesn’t change who you were
what you did
the people you screwed over.
remember when it was all your fault?
it still is.
sit still, look pretty.
got asked to the beach this afternoon.
he was a blusher, the downcast lashes sort;
big blue eyes, lopsided mouth
cute, the movie type.
lovely boy.
much too old.
age, stop getting in the way, you pissfuck.
“when he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, and when he cried,...”
– Epitaph on a Tyrant - W. H. Auden
i feel like eating pez
i’m dying my hair bubblegum pink come graduation.
not before, or i’ll match my dress
after, when greasy boys in seedy clubs are leering down my shirt
and it might be better for them to see ratty pink hair instead of glossy mahogany.
you don’t look for serious boys at seventeen. they don’t exist till thirty.
bubblegum pink is not intellectual; whatever must you think...