Sunday, 24 May 2015

23. Love Story

it’s when the knuckle
limbos beneath my bone, a
tickertape parade

22. Skillet

I found a new dumpster heart
clagged with rust

I thought scrub it
and scour it

salt rubs & steel pads
Make an old black thing new

They told me don’t expose it
to water too long

Avoid tomatoes, vinegar
all things with acid

Keep it from boys
whose intentions are red

I strip and reseason 
my new old heart

Cast it on fire so that
nothing will stick

I think next time
I’ll char his flesh

In a heart that spits and
sizzles and sears

I’ll swallow him into
wiggly gutmeat

Let my stomach acid
break him down

21. Crowds

We’re hiding from the crowds

streets of collapsing sand dunes
the burble and shift of people

We bike away
Away to the park where the

big high waterfall meets
the long straight road

We sit at the crest and pretend

it’s a carnival slide skiting to
the basin of the city

Waiting to let go
Over his shoulder I’m reading

dirty ads from boy hustlers
paedophile promises

romantic as a fist in the face

We shift on the rocks
adjusting hems and bruises

At night, they turn it off
the park the road the waterfall

They’ll leave this place to
solitude and lilac trees


Friday, 22 May 2015

20. That Morning Regret

snuck up on by the captain
in the pointy hat

    palms over the eyes
    pushed down the stairs

you try to lie, you are
swollen flesh
    oozing through hammocks

you try to read, the words
mate and shriek
    as sugar-addled baboons

you try to whisper quiet words, but
they drown
    under white static daggers

snuck up on by the senator
of morning regret

    try hot sweet tea
    try bubbles & oysters

there is someone out there waiting
to say something nice

they'll scrape the soil from the teeth
that sit in your jaw like graves

19. Horoscope

Dearest Scorpio,

Today is a sharp fist day
with knuckles rising—best
not to trust postmen
or recipe quantities, best
to stay indoors.

The world is sodden
with black cats
and tall men who’ll
cackle when you slide.

When you come to,
it will be with
needles in your butt
fishbones beneath
your cheeks.

Regrets will burrow
your flesh like sandflies,
asking: Why didn’t
I listen to the moon?

She told me to behave
and lock the door twice
and still my hand
with the last cup of flour.

18. Ms

I enter the belly of Pacman
mouth open & every yellow dot
is a popcorn kernel
waiting to explode on the tongue
when they go bang they say
well done Jane good job Jane
everything you do is cherries
& pretzels & pears

I am a sucker for rewards
for validation and blunt palms
for high-five festivities
tell me again that it will work out
so long as I keep
my mouth open and moving
to the 256th stage

Tuesday, 19 May 2015

17. Breakfast

breakfast was a drive-through movie
with wet paint on her hands

I reached for the starship mulch
to smear on the bagel

and coughed up another
bowl of fruit-loop Saturn-rings

morning was kicking round
my ankles like drunk terriers

all galaxy teeth and bruise spectaculars
breakfast was not ready yet

I didn’t ask for much, just
fried eggs & Barbarella & avocado

some wrestling ring spandex
to mask the stains on my thighs

16. Nice

let’s always be nice to each other,
she says, while closing
her jaws like automatic doors
around the reception of his flesh

let’s, he says, with a flat palm
like the blare of a horn
on a motorway in the
hottest part of summer

twenty minutes and their skin
is scuffed and spattered
as dustsheets in red

his bruises take the longest
slow yellow moons
rising over the hips’ horizons

hers are faster, she’s always
been a track star
in blue & purple velour

still, when she breaks the ribbon,
when she yells winner
with fists high in the air,

she means them both
this victory over dead blood
and patience with the skin

Monday, 18 May 2015

15. Say something

if you can’t say something nice
chomp down
on the neon yellow fuzz of tennis balls

if you can’t help regurgitating old spit
stick a fork in your shins.

we all make mistakes, but I like
you best
when you are sunk tooth deep

in a butt so magnificent
it could destabilise alien gravities
sink Viking ships

did I tell you yet: if you can’t say
something smart
sick-up chunks of love & glitter

in brown paper parcels, then
hand them to your bosses
without winking behind their backs

14. Slip

The morning is ladders and sandlewood
Soap without rungs
She tries to close her fist
The day starts slippy / gets slippiest
Spiderplants out of focus
She takes her life by a loose scruff
And stuffs it in the sack
Outside is bees and blood oranges
She works quickly
Kill all tomorrow’s flypaper
Shave all the things with barbs

Friday, 15 May 2015

13. Sorry

I say sorry, I meant
to answer every mail with
pink diamonds and rum floats

I meant to shackle sunflowers
to chopsticks and repot the hammock
(my dragonflies are battery-dead)

This week is sunk helicopters
and kites with weak thighs trying
to leap off the runway themselves

These ribbons are knotted, I apologise
to cunt and spunk unswallowed
the pansies gone to rot, but

I want to be distracted by creamy birdsong
and horizontal mistakes—don’t we all
go loopy and yes-full in the spring?

Next week I reject you all in favour
of cheese toastie triptychs
of a revolution built out of gin.

12. Who asks

It is only witches and stepmothers who ask:

who is the fairest? who wins? am I
the one who gets the most? As if
love were sacks of grain and dull rubies,

as if the act of asking
didn’t already make you lose.

And yet, the girl
cannot help but place the words upon
her tongue.

Tell me. How much?
Tell me again.

Until she is smothered
in a bathtub of pink declarations
and rubber ducks

where every bubble says
“the most” as it implodes.

The girl knows
she is spoiling herself for the gutter girls,
the look-both-way boys, but

lately she has been
dreaming of yellow steamrollers.

She thinks—she may be sodden
and spoiled, and yet

it is worth it for every soft pop
of her heart
as the foam subsides.

Wednesday, 13 May 2015

11. When the Storm Hits

it’s best to be on your knees
when the storm hits, the lightning
bares fat white teeth to the sky

get down, let his skull
be first struck—he’s not paying attention

lunatic with the inside of mouths

you do not want to die like this, but
we always said Scorpio’s a sucker
for the sky’s electric wink

(I confess—I can feel the barometer
bungee in a twitch
of clit and cunt, I confess

I started this because I was wriggly
at the hot ache of summer’s sky

it’s best to attack
when the storm hits
when he’s not paying attention

go for the ankles, and swipe
and cackle
at the thud of bone on parquet

tell him it’s for his own good
you were worried

the metal in his ears could set his head
to blaze and blister

tell him you’re not sorry
tell him it’s your turn now to stand

Tuesday, 12 May 2015

10. Echo

Pretty as a drunken bat, she
wakes on another Tuesday,
another spoiled milk morning.

Yesterday the cherry blossom
was pink popcorn husks
scattering the streets; today

she is as hollow and as curdled
as a dozen chocolate Santas
under a sour August sun.

The girl chews and swallows
quickly, scared of the things
that rise in all throats, afraid

if she doesn’t keep up with
the rising she will choke and
spill salt and bump against the walls.