writing with a broken pencil
how pointless
when the only connection I had on Valentine's
was wi-fi
and don't the vultures in this airport know
only one carrion allowed?
and no fresh fruit - so no pairs.

it's terrible, I know
but puns are my coping device
and you [every bloke in my youth] should never have tried to juggle
when you had no *****
but you left
so I'm all right now

and I amused myself
with silly strings of homophony
until I found someone
whose puns are even worse
than me

because you can't take a joke
that doesn't belong to you

it's all mind.

she is self-destruction in a bottle. she
can make fire out of sweat,
feel thorns inside her bones, and
the importance of this is that, oh
baby, the river runs red. time to
kick the habit.

but she's a broken vessel, and she
still sees in black and white. so
her body is in overdrive.
fingers caress her ****** thighs
are you listening? because soon she's going
down. a dance with a devil.
her needle's clean, her tar is laced, and her
throat is sore-she has been drowning.

her parents never loved her. her
wrist became an answering machine. she
is cold- her fingers bruised.
traced the stretch marks on her hips she has never been
with. only this month did the
red turned to white.


and by the time she notices
she realizes it's too late and she
has already
made
a
line
on
the
mirror

You, Yiska, you-
eyes,
plums,

settled in cream,
soft,
gazed there,

new worlds,
and lips,
barely touching,

edge of Paradise,
skin on skin,
warm, wet,

pressed.
Yiska, you-
hands,

******* fingers,
you there,
your thighs,

dress raised,
summery,
birds searching

out the sky,
I,
seeking bird-like,

to fly high.
You, Yiska, you-
I dreamed of you,

night searching,
sky darkening,
moon's oil,

stars exploding
in eyes
from window's view,
you,
Yiska,
you.

No wind hums
As I move into the next sunlight.
Spring is at my door
And apparently that’s meant
To mean a thing or two
For happiness.
For the dancing tiptoes,
And being allowed to
Drink in the day;
So long as the sun is in the sky.

This is the British Summer:
The arrival of soft jazz over beer gardens,
With scones and coffee
For the brand new lovers.
They’re too scared to drink,
For fear of saying something true about themselves.

They nod, they nod and agree, agree, agree.
She internalises sexism,
Whilst he tolerates sexlessness;
They’re both clinging to that coastline postcard
That is now lost to pollution,
And to the havoc of streetlights on stars.

She heals cocoa butter into her pores
As he falters on through his Big Mac.
They met in McDonald’s, for fear of suggestion,
Yet he could tell from her nose ring,
The life in her eyes,
That there was something beyond
Their corporate collision.

Oh, this is my life.
Mere fantasies of far-off places,
Of far-off loves and feelings;
Where everything descends from intuition;
From where everything stems
From my childhood heart.

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

i identify as the blood stains on your sheets
the holes we ripped in the edge of your bed
i identify with the deadbeats in the streets
and the clouds of smoking dancing over your head.
i fell in the forest with no one around to hear me
so the question begs, did i really fall?
i'm stuck between a rock and a hard place,
i've been everywhere but i'm going nowhere at all.
you reeled me in with your thin feelings and
your brown eyes and your white lies.
you wore against my bones when all along i've known,
you bore your plan inside me this whole time.
you've wasted plenty of mine,
and you made your scars plenty deep,
but have the nerve to ask me why i'm not fine,
you haunt me in my sleep.