I burn a deep rich green
Peeling into 21
I wear black
I want to feel it all
I bloom pink and soft
Later flowers are the most driven and solid
Thick hearty petals and stacked plant flesh
Afraid to be sexual?
“I think I’ve faked more orgasms than I have had”
I burn a dark luxurious red
Let the flowers open
Ask Or demand
Burn the colours you need to be
he smells like he’s homeless but he lives in Beaches
he’s eating a sushi burrito.
he’s all about pretend panic attacks and shiny excuses.
daddy’s money, daddy’s boy.
living on the 56 floor and doesn’t know how too cook
city living metro man
If you get what you are given,
Do you ever really get what you are given?
If you take what is there,
you take it for granted.
And without a word they touched their bare bellies together,
Making slurping sounds.
Anna, with a drink in her hand said,
“It just made sense”.
“It just did” she repeated.
A ritual? A greeting?
And my neigbours are old but they are up later than me.
My spelling is bad, yet I still write poetry.
Personality, personality, writing needs depth,
No rhyme scheme no syllable counts no breath.
My bare calloused hands killing flies,
With sheets of polyester, pizza boxes and zip ties.
That line was hard to swallow,
Like cum and medicine and pills and sorrow.
Stateless yet nuclear
The father is in full lux
Passive aggressive heat fights
Maybe I need eternal sleep,
Or, maybe I am just too weak.
I like to be alone.
Decomposing their bones.
Steel toed boots in November sun,
Fist fights, pity sex, and dad’s gun.
Hold your last breath,
Staving and sick?
Take your pick.
I’m having a blast,
I’m too cool at last.
I cut your manicured lawn,
And fuck your mom.
I’m a suburban serial killer,
Empty and looking for filler.
I am perpetual depression,
And major in constant aggression.
I am obsessed,
I clean your shiny pool,
And play you like a fool.
A glimmer in my eye,
Watching your family die.
I make minimum wage,
Get high off rage.
I vacuum the pastel rug,
And sell your son drugs.
He can be just like me,
Trapped in suburbia eternity.
I wish I had giant eyes
The kind of eyes that are so glassy
And so glossy
that they cannot be real
I wish they would take over my sight
Allowing for hyper sight
Seeing who I am
I wish my eyelashes went further than my brow
Catching tears before they descend
Cupping the salty liquid
Carving raw designs into my forehead
Telling me who I am
I wish the crook of my neck
Was large enough to consume my family
Store them with me
Even when they are long dead
Their bones would become mine
Showing me who I am
I wish I had a buzz cut
You can see every mark
On my scalp
The kind of hair that makes you question gender
They can decide who I am
She has covered me in her sticky adhesive again,
It impedes my vision,
Tugging at my eyelids.
Forcing the tears,
I have held for so long.
There is nothing sterile about me.
No amount of latex free adhesive can glue me back together.
Glaring, I can see her smiling.
As if I wanted,
The sticky tentacles of her caring.
The rails were cold on my hands
but so was the coffee we share with a straw
Topics of conversation trail off
into the luminous glow of childhood
Like the rules of kickball suppressing
we write our names on the cement walls
we watch the smoke crawl out of your house
I set my hand in fresh gum
warm from the chew
pale strings flow in the windless room
far enough to make us leave
Grazing those cold rails
we do not step on the cracks
they are toxic
and will hurl us back into the past
Practice makes perfect
when denying our lives and
living under rocks