the boy in the undead years cuthis age in half by the ageof girls he findsscalps, vulnerability is a bitch, like sex all over your hands. the toyko girl is suicidalfor fun, she plays moshi-moshi handgames handgrenades paparazzi do you wanna befamous somebodyloved? the boys find herat bridges, drippingher wet cuniversal righteous nothing, we arefragile… Continue reading poem: nice people are always liars
Tag: art
poem: obsessions
the boy had his faceturned off: telling himwas a mistake. and yet,you don't knowuntil you try. isn't thatthe lie, sold in filmsthe ghibli boy the animegirl, pale faces likecaterpillar heads, leaned neatly against windows,shaking fields. the girl,she confesses: the sky goespink, the moon softlucid round. the boy, of course,says yes. he talks to her onlyout… Continue reading poem: obsessions
poem: i misspelled the name of the artist and had to google it
do you want to know whythe academics are elitists hatedthatcher have politics like sexfuck their candidates roughlyin campaign emails andsupporting media; they knowinside their flower gardenskulls ironic skeletoneyeholes, thinking nothingeverything all at onceall like nothing, my mindis a frida kahlo painting, it is derridait is torn and deconstructedand "torn," a 1997 Natalie Imbruglia pop hitnominated… Continue reading poem: i misspelled the name of the artist and had to google it
poem: i’m thinking of starting things
sports presents: december sunday,winter light, the men first-downfirst-down. i am undecided,grad school or travelteach abroad, live love sex& kisses with strangers,his hand on my neckin the little house, jeju islandrennes then paris, toykotoyko beijjing. sports continues: why don't you crowd the line of scrimmage, says the commentator;the aloe plant next to the christmastree next to… Continue reading poem: i’m thinking of starting things
poem: party with the optimists
they were drinking fast confetti wine pinktaffeta hands they say do you consideranything sacred fuck that i sayfuck that and the dawn meltscity lights bombs my brastrap caught call me a taxi waithe says the cocaine still flush waityou were such a slut foridealism flares of art eventually i say lighting the cigerette shaky brightface… Continue reading poem: party with the optimists
poem: the battle of
again again again and howin muddy, half-trudged stepsregains the hold, the menfall— down— and i cannot complain. i have instead disorder, mindhell sparks, all orange-pillcontained. once, theydied in droves and now i die alone, on the upstairsbed my face againstthe shrills. you must know:he is not returning: heis not worth attention,deflection, call it crush— in… Continue reading poem: the battle of
poem: the queen’s gambit
midnight in the sixties, girl comesalive: narcotic smile between cigarette smoke and are you finished yet? oh, that is what it's supposedto feel like, don't stop. she is tight, squares, cocaine. madness in my blood like a mother,the psychosis hangingand fucking, dressed to drink,conquer, la femme fatale. the usual themes: what ami? what is family?… Continue reading poem: the queen’s gambit
writing: the holiday girl
not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know… Continue reading writing: the holiday girl
poem: lady clane
woman who gracefully and sometimesgracelessly took us, an entirenation of squabbling super-market mums, plastic bags drooping sadlywith sunday roasts, potatoes readyto be pulled and plushed — and she sitsin front of the square tellycutting the vegetables and sometimes (shite!)her fingers, watching; lady clane ridesto the cathedral, smiling brightlyand shyly, lace lining her handsand skinny arms… Continue reading poem: lady clane
poem: for/against
to what degree are the romantics, the pin-addled girls in black/white deconstructedjumpsuit-jail-cell-dresses now allowedto take fruit, wine, a little foreign cheese— like the system,it is only half molded, they sayplayfully/carefully— out to the dregsof connecting countries:the border, very political, a greatgreen country best fitfor running hounds and sittingin tweed, reading, watching. you can smellit on… Continue reading poem: for/against
the last pavilion 