when i was young, i overanalysed, gave moments great epochs: that fall that summer, the size and emotionof the wind, the tree-shadow on the gable and kawaii music orold literature and cats. the boys all becomingsoulmates, over-explained but neverread. the people now are like the year: twenty-twenty, riots riots riots. she stilldoesn't know if this… Continue reading poem: ‘now’
Tag: love
poem: blonde highlights
the mystery, the murders; you sound likeforeign words or fitzgerald writing alone in rose colored wine; you text like an AI chatbot but i take the blame mostly. listening to reginaspektor in the car: do you love me do youlove me, says my sister my motherthe general throng. how do i explain, i wantairplane ecstasy… Continue reading poem: blonde highlights
poem: poem for a book i haven’t read
clones in britian, blue blockhouses and history book names. they saidtry enough and you'll be good enough, you'll be one of us. the tory boydown the street, cat food hair, catchesbutterfly corpses, also kissessoftly plastic girls, modern science meltingbetween your fingers. underneath fragilegirl, comes back blondebland. he stands on the porch and watches her slim… Continue reading poem: poem for a book i haven’t read
writing: the cousin
The lights dimmed in the room and she left quickly. She did not want to see his face when he came in. It had been six months and she did not want to look at him. The picture was in her head, aggressive in clarity. She did not have to look. She left and stood… Continue reading writing: the cousin
poem: nice people are always liars
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
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: bad free verse attempting to explain
the old words and adages arestale; and yetwe all blaze up, in unison,whenever there isa chance. one million rooms, foaming with m/f violent music; writing to panic attack hangoversand mythical cigerette smoke. they laytogether, in the afterhe came into the room with the snowflake-coldand she blazed up. twenty-five years later she fucksa different man, the… Continue reading poem: bad free verse attempting to explain
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
the last pavilion 