the way you breathe when you are crying
(incomplete)

short burst, like a child’s balloon
pierced by a pin, sharp static on an
overused radio,...

'...thank you all from the bottom of my burning, nauseous stomach.'
- Kurt Cobain

I have teenage ants in my stomach,
prickly punk ants
disaffected downer ants
that gel their antennae
and go on road trips
in furious motorcycles
over bloody landscapes.

Bad Love Poem To Someone Who Will Not, Under Any Circumstances, Love Me Back

Because:

I can see you riding a bicycle
down an old road, breathing quick
as you roll over red brick,
grass on a lawn
I have not cut.

I can see you playing the piano
because I wanted to listen
whilst making warm soup
that made us both flush
and take our eyes
off the television you paid for.

I can see you in an apron,
station tuned to chocolate cake;
writing couplets about running taps
and the way I look
when I am sleeping.

And I can see us in striped pyjamas,
on that same couch
we bought second-hand,
surrounded by unwashed plates
of breakfast we’ve shared
on a Sunday afternoon.

cheryl

you said, “i’m not going very far.”

and i found you
in the mind of another, trapped between
algebra, because you were unknown;
alchemy, because you were beginning

to shine through dull metal, like an old star.

you smell like white clothes, taste like paper.

green eyes and rooms and smiles
that aren’t mine.

(the first time)

i thought something died, something putrid
but vague, like Sunday garbage bags
melting and wetting summer.

i wrote this while staring at Japanese children. Lolitas, anyone?

pristine by a blackboard,
i can’t read your alphabets
through my telescope.

checkered suitcase, ponytail,
she's ready for travel.
i love blank eyes and Kodak smiles,
this one’s a talk show host.

i dropped an eyelash
into grey socks, a hole, smooth leg.
skirt swishes; a bruise
i sensed through your sweater.