Category Archives: Poetry

Merriweather

sexuality
allows violence we
don’t trust girls.
exist and get released to the public, it’s
enough.

a camera is presenting
ways to justify our interest in
whoever is committing these atrocities
even with that kind of truth.
Even in the face of truth.

she’s
a title bestowed by
flamboyant outfits, yells
she’s had a change of heart
she said to come
and make a lot of money

Ask her about violence and it’s complicated.
However, it is times like this when I’m
faced with my opinion I
need help. Violence is childhood.
That’s something that was done overnight.
It’s sad because she’s a victim, but he’s
a victim too.

selective focus photography of black rotary phone

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Throwing up until I bled
felt good. (I had to get you
off my chest.)
A cry and a can of Coke
dilutes
the acid
which fastens my throat; scratched
from fingernails
that left behind
fine
red
lines;
soaked by the lemon
you kept in the back of your fridge.
(If lemons don’t go bad, why did it
turn brown?)

I want to know
I want to know
because I’m a bastard now.

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He’s old -middle aged-
and he sits on a plastic white
garden chair, at the end of your street.
You’ll see him with a cigarette-
most hours. But the man has
no legs.

Half-limbed, semi skimmed
his stumps raise red as he stubs
his cigarette. And you wonder
why he chooses the flames on his
lips, the power – to turn the tables-
lights to his fingers
-he holds on longer than he has to.

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Onder Meer (Among others)

There’s a patch of burnt grass,
Still blackened by the sausage rolls
We set alight when we were
Fourteen years old.
By the Beck, our prepubescent
Hand holding professed  a love
Now lost.  But still I hold
Onto the memories like a tree
Clings to its leaves-
-They twist
And fade
And somehow fall
Away.

I hear our laughter
When I see the burnt patch,
But I cannot place our faces
And I cannot taste  the  ash.

I am  a  world of many worlds,
And though I am no longer
A fourteen year old girl,
I am the smoke – the embers- of
All I have ever known.

This poem was written for a friend who’s putting together an anthology based on the significance of one’s home.

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The  single-sided handkerchief,
damp and crisp.
Folding,
against the white
of my skin,
and think- just think-
of bliss.

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Cry me a pigeon
And spread your filthy wings.
I heard the others whispering
When the proud dove sings.
Oh, in the sky,
What a sight!
When the filthy birds shadow
Twelve arrows of white.

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If I am to love only once,
Let it be with you-
For the Sun shines out your ass
And from your mouth- the moon.

I’ll call you a Summer’s day
And you will call me a silly cunt,
Waking in a puddle of your drool
With a glare, a middle finger, a grunt-

In bed with our socks on,
Stroking the hairs on our legs
Like stray animals on our sheets-

I am to love only once.

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