poetry

She

​She is no oxygen thief.
She isn’t stealing something
that doesn’t belong to her,
she is being force-fed it,
being gifted the same terrible present every birthday,
being given something that she doesn’t want
in relentless abundance.

She has had the same headache
for a decade, and can’t remember
life without it.
She doesn’t know the definition of ‘well.’

She looks forward to blinking
for the last time,
to closing her eyes
and never opening them again.
It’s exciting not knowing
exactly when this will happen –
aren’t you excited? You should be.
It’s a once in a lifetime thing.

She doesn’t want to breathe
but it keeps on happening.

The copper said, “No sudden moves!”
as he tried to decide whether to
get her off the edge of the roof
or get the carving knife out of her hand first,
thinking of the paperwork he’ll have to fill out later.
She said, “But all I have are sudden moves.
Isn’t my heartbeat just a series of sudden moves?
Isn’t yours?”
Her words got caught in the wind.

She balances on the edge
thinking about how we see the world,
and then we don’t –
or perhaps we do
but from another angle
in another realm.

She doesn’t like the view from here,
buried above ground,
and hopes that the world will look prettier
once she’s buried in it.
Unblinking, unbeating, unbreathing,
unfeeling, undisturbed,
underground.

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Standard
poetry

Girls

GIRLS
splashy micro-hothouses
no humdrum engagements
styled heads
wild-card zing
inspired
offbeat
decorated
attentions jostling
More
is more
is more
is sex and pain
is tears and blood
and then
the bomb effect
the essential details
the newfound frankness:
“there will be more stories.”


This is an erasure poem made from words found on pages 63 and 99 of Vogue (May 2018, British edition)

Standard
poetry

Sandwiches

No, ​I don’t mind making the sandwiches

for our piss-up picnic in the park:

it’s strangely satisfying to slice

the cheddar for your Ploughman’s

using the same knife I hack

away at my wrists with, the one I keep

hidden up my sleeve on days when I’m

not safe in my own skin, the one I sleep

with on nights when you’re away and I don’t

trust my own heartbeat, the one I reach

for when I need clarity to shine through the insanity,

with its unfailing black handle and mirrored serrated blade.

Honestly, I don’t mind making the sandwiches

at all, babe.

Standard
poetry

Ocean

I have the timbre of
the ocean
in my bones,

And,

As she consumes me,
my lover says
that she can still taste
the salt on my skin.

I leap into the sea
to escape –
her,
life,
the phantom weight
of old lovers,

And the echoes
beneath the surface
are almost loud enough,
to block out

Her voice,
so full of the big city –
a shrill treble,
backed by synth-pop and alleyway screams.

I watch as she,
my albatross,
dives
squawking for me to stay,

But the sea’s hum
has me chasing rogue waves
into the deep,

And I
don’t drown,
because,

I

Have the timbre
of the ocean
in my bones.

Standard
poetry

Brexi(s)t

when you want to live
but, at the same time,
you also want to die
you do neither:
you merely exist
like dirty laundry
and electricity,
like abandoned cars
and stagnant air,
like unwritten rules
and unused ink,
like your potential
which you feel certain
will remain
unfulfilled
whether you live or die.
but you also exist
in the same way
that tomorrow’s newspaper exists:
you need Tomorrow
in order to Be:
and you’ve got stay alive
if you want to read the headlines.

Standard