When you suggested meeting again
the next day
I thought to myself
‘OK I’ve hit the jackpot
he’s keen to see me again
so I must have wowed’
Didn’t stop to think
‘did he wow me?’
Tag: poet
Texts like dopamine
Living for these horny Monday nights beneath the moonlight
going from Mazzy Star to Supertramp and Aerosmith in between
writing down my feelings, letting them spill out onto the page
as neighbours eat ramen and melt minds with screens.
Lava lamp doused in hot pink, room bursting with colour
and trinkets glowing in their places.
Your messages trickle in and send beeps to my brain
(and something else to my pants).
Dinner with friends and heartbreak.
She has suction-cupped herself
to this balding commitment phobe
words tangled like spaghetti
smacking against her mouth
as we bow our heads over Bao Buns
in Borough.
A feast punctuated by a clamour of solidarity
as we bite into lumpy discs of fried chicken
and ferocious nods, laughs in odd numbers
the desperation of dating
and the deafening roar of ‘he’s not worth it’.
Shady dreams
Dancing with the idea I might like
That tousled fro
Those 121s that drip with laughter
And those pre-sleep minutes doused in the hot flames of a fantasy.
Distressed by the thought
Of upsetting you
Of playing second fiddle
To another
Of watching you sidle up, delicate hand outstretched
Helpful words cascading from your tongue.
Playing with the idea of biting your earlobes
Jaded, sepia hours spent in an apartment
You cooking, innocent
Turning dangerous, unable to bear the air ablaze with passion.
Crooked arms and tangled feet and bodies slapped together like ham onto bread
Wet from the heat, hot wafts of wheat.
Smile sticky with sweetness
And good intentions
That curtsy before me in every catch up.
The cabaret of body dysmorphia
I spend all day twisting and contorting my features
To feel like an ounce of a human
Worthy of love, worthy of life.
I spend every minute feeling compelled to look my best
To every passerby
They could have a face like a foot
And yet I’d still seek to impress
Like a peacock riddled with cancerous boils who flashes her feathers
To hide the putrid, pus-caked skin
Clinging to her underbelly.
Every action is shackled to Beauty
Every head tilt, smile, stroll or expression
Doused in a sickly sweet, eager to please haze
Of self optimisation.
Poolside panting.
As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
From very high to very low
Today was a day of mammoth contrasts
when the good met the bad and then the ugly
and I found myself struggling to claw my way out of
a cylindrical hole
my feelings had pushed me into.
I think I broke part of my brain because this oxymoron was so loud
and moronic, true to its name
I think the bits of flesh couldn’t handle two juxtaposed giants
vying for my attention
I’d like to think they had equal chances but it’s clear the bad had the upper hand
the smirking winner
the bad took control and the good lay flaccid and dull
under a dreary spotlight
incredible praise met with steamrolling terror
that glides over you like you’re a wannabe pancake
making mince meat or mashed potato out of my head
an unbelievable contrast that collided against my skull
and I haven’t been able to think straight since.
Ldn
I like London
even when I’m breathing in chemical cancers burped up by buses
and dodging dog turd seeping into the pavement when I’m out for my run
the dozens and dozens of cookie cutter couples
humming around like bees in beanies and bright baseball jackets
that drip vintage down to their kneecaps.
I like London
the convenience, the ease of delivery, the lattes brewing around every corner
that gaping chasm beneath our feet
where people sit and sweat
and bounce from borough to borough in a rattling box
that spot on our walks where buildings bruise the battered skyline
and shed the puffy clouds.
Happy yawns
I never write when I’m happy
Except for now, while I’m bursting
at the seams with gratitude.
It’s overpowering
like water running through the pipes of the soul.
I sat on the carpet beneath the Christmas tree
and soaked up the flickering of the lights,
brushed the lukewarm, balmy carpet
with my fingers
and felt comfort envelop me,
cradle me,
shower me with its kisses.
Past experiences will always remain,
the future will always feel foggy,
I’ll always grapple with the present.
I may look upon it all fondly,
but that doesn’t mean I need it.
Hamster wheels
I might be a slave to capitalism
That’s what I’ve decided
These wild hours sat with a screen
And then evenings spent pumping out words
Like some verbose, defecating machine
Weekends working that hamster wheel again
The money is addicting
And the silence of not doing
Is deafening
So I’ll do and continue to do
To fill the quiet air with pennies and pounds
And stop it inflating with the cold tickle of worry
Bumbling, sore, back is bruised from the inside
Chest is tight, feet feel swollen
Convinced I’m dying in some way
(I guess we all are, in the end)
Poised to deliver, biting off more than my mouth and fingers can handle
Capitalist slave, I didn’t realise rest is rebellion.
Talking to my pillow. 