little lolita
and the feminist freak of new york
leatherface donatella
and dead gianni on a gold lacey pillow
saint angie no boobs, god bless her
and kill william in a yellow suit
don't forget thatcher
and ugly eleanor red roses and velvet
it's marilyn monroe or joan holloway
it's the curvy precious of purity
and act of innocence
it's anne frank, the jewish sweetie
jean harlow who reeked of virginity
but realized too late
that it's only for the boys
who love white and pretty floral things
i say to women,
have lots of dirty sex
and cut off your boobs
chop your fucking hair off
fuck the feminists

Little Lolita had her work cut out for her
But she did her best
To break him down
Turn him into something
That she could use
To destroy herself

If only it hadn't worked
Quite so well
Maybe she could have had him
For a little bit longer.

You are the threat
Set against
my southern heart

Every time I think I'm ready to settle down
A new distraction comes along
I am Lolita forlorn and lost


The girl who wears lipstick and is witty
You only care I'm pretty
The melodic memory of my mischievous laughter echoing in your chest.

I don't care about money
I care if you're funny
Please hold me close when I am naked and need to rest

True, I like to wander,
but I am my father's daughter

I  can't fill my journals if I don't live my life
The rewritten and worn
The sentimental and scorned
The possessive poem's wife

That’s how it usually begins: with high expectations—
the girl with the faulty heart and the boy with the shadowed brain
setting out to cross cure one another—
in the flawless compliment of young relationship.
But the human isn’t Jigsaw—
where a cave could once accommodate an outlier
a wall has grown—
and the sting of a once purely engulfing heat
has manifested into nicotine stains.
Lolita has grown,
and acne has learned of a new canvas,
as she decays from original Venus like a white rose petal turning brown.
For she is just a child—
as are these newborn affections—
They coo and giggle as a babe that has not yet seen the sun boom
and surrender the world when it drowns in the horizon—
instead he grows to a lad and taps the trunks with branches
playing some imaginary game—
that will only be beaten out of him with the gaining of years.
Until, finally, he leaves home, disillusioned, always to be in search of solid youth,
much as the girl’s chest craves a plug and the boy’s mind seeks to fill a nook—
That’s how it usually ends: with low results.

You're living in a
fairly reasonable rent flat,
outskirts of the city,
with a partner that isn't
a wife, yet.
Every day you get up
at six am.
Yawning, you throw the
pastel-coloured covers aside
and trip into the kitchen
in grey boxers,
rubbing your eyes.
There you drink coffee,
black,
and lean against the counter
slurping it gently,
occasionally blowing on it.
You shower, you shave,
you clean your teeth half
clothed and humming a little.
Your girl is in the kitchen
with messy hair that was dyed
about six months ago,
eating a bowl of cereal
and watching something
fairly mindless
on telly.
Last night, you didn't
have sex, you didn't even
try, it happens routinely
every once in a while and
afterwards she turns over and
falls asleep at the other side
of the bed, feeling she's
done her duty. You stay awake
a little longer, lay on your
back, wondering if this is
normal and indeed this is
the best you're gonna get?
Its functional.
Every day is the same
dreary shade of grey
and you have taken to watching
strange things on telly,
and reading gritty, realistic
novels because hey, you relate.

Every other week I see you
at a concert, in the pub, in
Morrisons buying some ingredients
for the nettle wine you're brewing
or the tomato plant in your
bathroom window.
Stuff to alleviate boredom.

Let me alleviate it.
Let me wake you up at 4
in the morning, when you're
up at six, with a wild gleam
in my eye and my hands somewhere
unspeakable.
Let me convince you to
make love to me in the park at
midnight, and argue ferociously
about Nabokov's Lolita.
Let me make you
uncomfortable when we're at
dinner with friends by
stroking your leg under
the table.
Let me sing whilst
you play piano in candlelight.
Lets have screaming matches
and run out of money
and decide to just
go to Australia for a while
and work on a banana plantation.


Do not be forever painted in
everlasting shades of grey,
because your ordinary frame
contains a whole universe
and when you open your mouth,
I can hear the dark matter
collisions and see the stars
just inside your throat.

This hotel serves green tea on golden platters
I bite into it like liquid has a spine,
circular piston cradling a ladder to my tongue
the giant beanstalk, I sleep here and awake
somewhere else with morning meals
already stomached in a stasis –

just how Lolita lucidly bled the rugged hand
he forcefully bled under her summer dress:
I am here, I am her with you
as I hike teapots and escape each new room.

For the next, it has squeaky cots –
you heave me to the breakfast bar prior to sun
so I do not whine when heat hits my face,
there is not tea here, bottles of Coke are okay:
a slow content because they’ll hear if we churn.

And unlocking the stall from an exterior view,
it is the wall that looks attractive for one
lollylike little girl, the old man warm & ugly,
insomnia only goes when he wants to fly south.

60 seconds of heaven
60 minutes she loved me
60 hours on the run
60 days in the courtroom
60 years to life in pen
but it was almost worth it

hush my perfect baby
hush my little girl
i am here and you are too
and we can finally begin

you kiss me with your eyes
i see you
you tempt me with your smile
i know you do

perfect curls
perfect eyes
freckles are not blemishes
rather, beauty marks
galore

you're not the sun
because
your radiance is not meant for all
you are the moon
whispering sweet nothings to me
in the middle of the night

i will make you a full moon
i will make you glow
and you will wink
and smile,
curling your lips in a smirk
and say
"am i too young to feel this way?"

you know what my answer will be

Perched upon the peasant’s altar
Anomalous, conglomerate, anorexic, and onyx
The concubine’s cake with the Oxford comma,
Communal and picked and eaten at by little birds

Nominal trauma oozes visceral
Cervix and break
Sever and break
Steep walls of amorphous clay
Congeal to the walls of the willow

Exquisite and infinite, infidel
Flight
Lolita, Lo, light of my life,
Long hair dripping with whiskey