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Drunken pirates sloshing along
a martini sea, looking for papers to roll some angelfish ****.

Then on to Giza to gaze in amazement before we tackle
the Gates of Hell and raze it.

Swashbuckling demons we branded our feet. A duel with
the devil we had to concede
before sailing back up to our Martini sea.
Another poem written to complement a torch painting.
valencia Dec 2018
i am holding hands with a girl at a pet store.
i love how her voice changes for each of the animals, high and breathy for the calicos, round and bubbly for the angelfish, sonorous and slithery for the python. she loves them all, even the great hairy tarantulas that scare me beyond my age.

i am holding hands with this girl who’s halo of hair glows banana yellow beneath the heat lamps in the reptile section, a girl who offers a finger to the teething kittens.
“can’t we have one?” she asks, in the voice she uses only for me.

a voice i can’t describe without using her name, the kind of voice that makes all of time and space obsolete, oblivion just aftermath. i imagine joan of arc heard something similar the first time she picked up a sword.

she is still holding my hand, and i feel like im drowning in my affection for her, sinking into cartoon quicksand. i don’t want to let go. so i don’t.

“are you two...together?”

this is not unfamiliar, but the womans voice, the voice she has chosen, is strangely acdic. this woman has laced her tone with arsenic, without even a teaspoon of passive aggressive sugar to hide her poison. she inhaled, puffing herself up like a frightened lizard before her final words.

“there are children here, you know.”

in the future, i think of a thousand things to say. we are children too.

two girls holding hands after school, two girls holding hands in the movie theatre, two girls in a booth at tony’s pizza, two girls sharing akward first kisses while they hide behind the wall of a library.

two girls holding hands in a pet store on a saturday afternoon.

i know now they see us through funhouse mirrors: distorted, disturbed, our monstrous bodies taking up too much space, spoiling innocent spaces with our imposing sexualities.

our innocence never ours to begin with.
Matthew Roe  Sep 2018
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
The waves are dredged along. Under the constant gaze
of the shimmering top floor moon.
Down to each second to each hour.
But, you are the angel fish, floating
beneath the cover of these tides.
Your shoals guide, the humble anglers
a silver blonde amongst the bigwigs,
The local red army, clothed in Cex shirts,
not needing an October symphony,
but now I sing your praises.
The bag you gave, though I had no 5 pence to spare,
lightened my load as much as any camel
along the silk road.
My journey is eased,
by your projected hope that my railcard,
will be renewed in future,
for your faith gives promises the
of Gold.
You allow me to watch the guided heroes in explosive flames,
despite my smuggling
of Jelly babies under a hoodie.
For the shimmer in
eyes, I will leave no litter,
for those with the blonde glittered scales,
From cold night, let the sun rule,
And the sea shall shimmer too.
For those who provide humanity in times of business and bureaucracy, like the woman at the train station who gave me 1/3 off my ticket even though my railcard had ran out, knowing I would renew it at a later point.
'October symphony'=In Communist Russia, composers used to have to write a symphony to praise the 1917 revolution each October.
Also: I shall now be uploading poetry readings to my YT channel, 'The MJ Roe Show', I have already done one for 'I'm a Fascist'.

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