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Tegan Aug 2018
wasps
lazily flying around
faux red humming light,
early morning darkness outside.
and they would hold still in your hand:
crawl little up arms,
no buzz,
no sting,
no alarm
to be gently flung out open windows.
one deceased
to be inspected in afternoon soberness -
actually a wasp.
Why were they so slow?
So lazy?
So docile?
Did she tame wasps in red light?
Only the foggy evening can tell.
Tegan Aug 2018
Good morning or goodbye?
I don’t know which
I just close my eyes.
Remember those four hungover
short,
fast,
lingering,
still in shock
cause what the ****
before you left
you kissed me?
Tegan Aug 2018
Do you hear water wherever you go?
The hum,
the slosh,
the drum,
the stroke.
Always moving, potentially drowning us slow.
Like how happy people hear music
you hear the tide,
and the moon tugging gently;
you have nowhere to hide.
Tegan Aug 2018
Not quite the green rolling hills
i’d devour only a few years ago
i’m stuck depending on the
dreary dark alleys, buldings with dessimated feelings,
girls who prance so estatically through
cement pavements and tarmac streets.

How do I feel knowing brick tastes sweet,
smog feels soft, and constant movement relaxes me?
They flourished and thrived,
grew up so different, so industrialised.
A completely different vocabularly that has been bastardised.
Not just trees and meadows
not just red juggarnauts and underground rumbles.

I need to find the sea
just for a moment to wash this off me.
oh wot a change
Tegan Aug 2018
Sunday only during the Summer
the history of these words begin.
Windows flung open
fan on a constant eight hour rotation
she wears bare legs
and no make up,
doesn’t wash just
sits and mellows.
What memories have alcohol not touched,
rose tinted glasses hide the blood,
hide the shame,
pretend to feel
and watch words form again.
Effortlessly, supposedly.
Tegan Jun 2018
a warm, windy, muggy day
where i have blissfully snoozed the arvo away.
men parade the streets chanting about home,
the football hits the net repeatedly whilst my mind puts on a show.
i am always dreaming of you,
i hate that i do.
not you,
but me,
why have i so suddenly gotten back the capacity to dream?
Tegan Mar 2017
The sweet and sour taste of four a.m,
when all that can be heard is deep breathing and slight rain.
I lay in a bed that no-one owns,
in a room perpetually cold,
and pretend that my endeavours to educate this blank piece of paper,
that doesn't actually exist in this physical plane,
are not in vain.
But in reality, does the few thousand words that try to define
how we translate cultural films over time,
actually matter?
I think not.
Because every few minutes I have to stop,
just to check that you're breathing, that your skin is still soft,
just to whisper better dreams in your ears.
I'd rather be asleep than sat here.
I'd rather be somewhere that does not exist.
I'd rather be driving down that road,
the one where the bluebells are just opening,
with absolutely no concept of tomorrow.
why must i write a dissertation
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