Eyes closed blackwater night-time. Night-time warm thickness tree branches ripple breeze, incubated deep in water. Night-time filmy fish slow-smooth past like vowel-sounds. Open-mouthed oh oh ohs of fish mouths noses play glass-smush. Streaks of phosphor body snaking, curlicuing thick water. Resting – slow heavy dancing. Bodies ripple, swaying algae, flat rhythmic blinking eyes. Open-mouth oh sounds, weightless carrying free float, all flow-flow-flow deep languid.
I want to put
my finger
in your head wound
roll it around…
get it good n
wet
warm
Then I will
write my name
with your blood
on my arm
like I’m six
like it’s love
I totally won’t even write your name
You’ll call bullshit
I’ll say
shut up fuck
let’s go to the hospital already
you are staining the couch
When you clasp your hands
Over your mouth, and hold
Your eyes raped open
Roped, ripped, rapt
Whichever, be sure to
Distort your mouth in fear
For me, sweetheart
Screw up your guts in knots
For me, lover
Twist your knife in tissue
For me, sourmouth
Hammer your nails in bone
For me, loather
Fingers formed, grip tighter
Don't let light cross your face
No betrayal in your gaze
Not a smile of recognition
Just delicate vomit
Into your skinny
Cupped flesh
Sliding down
Your neck
Your stomach acid
Smothers this moment
On your knees, you
Cry for black water
My hands pull your hair
Into my fist as you pray
And I pray and you pray
And I hold and you erupt
Come morning
Your eyes
Compete with
Your skin
For failure
I am the spunk the babysitter caught with her cunt instead of her mouth
(Or her eye)
When the baby’s daddy came home alone
I am the sperm that won the race
The only thing I ever won
I am the boy who was born of man who was always a boy
I am the boy of a woman who was always right and never did anything wrong her entire life
Except have me
Just ask her
Here’s the choice I made:
No, I can’t tell you
All these choices create all this drama
No drama
Just words
These words
Update your Facebook status: “I just had an abortion :-)”
Post the responses on PIFFLE.
You will be a legend
~O~
watching
a squirrel
dart across
the street
i realize i am lonely
for your insides
Four times a week, she says,
a little nasal. I try to do the
maths but I’m distracted by
her round red-purple
clog-toes blossoming like
tulips. Her smoothie matches
her psyche, or do I mean her
footwear? –
It was the oddness that
was compelling, I offer
by way of explanation –
Our voices disappearing
half-drifts hiding inside
traffic’s fog-breath,
toes rested on
London sad grass
pretending to be
astroturf.
Probably she takes her rings all off when she washes her dark face
Several volunteers say they saw her by the chocolate swooning
And of the man reporters continue to report his misdemeanours angrily
Probably he waited for the courgette pelting before sneaking out the window
In the meanwhile she mistakes a kind word for unlimited warranty
Last sighted crouching awkwardly in that angled space beneath the stairs
Several churchgoers offered to give her head on their way back from Sunday service
After some negotiation it's for the best that she agreed
I’d given you the opening:
leaned back, spread my legs…
I mean, I was only asking for
a few half-hearted thrusts like
3 at most
You were all,
“The guy’s right there…” and
“…they probably have video cameras…”
(you motioned to the invisible corners of the store)
I was like,
“It would’ve only taken 3 seconds and
we could’ve forever said,
‘that was the Starbucks we pretend fucked in’
whenever we passed it, but
it’s too late now…”
You said it would’ve ended up on
YouTube or something.
You said they would’ve recognized
your bat tattoo.
“Whatever,” I said. “You used to be fun…”
Then I went outside and poured hot coffee all over my wrist so that I could feel something.
I am going to allow you
To write a poem now
I am being allowed to write a poem
It seems we are making progress
As long as you behave yourself
No funny business, funny boy
No funny business, no
I'll be a good boy, not a funny one
I'm only letting you write a poem
Because otherwise you might be missed
You think? You really think I might be missed?
I'm sure you're wrong; you're far too kind
But I missed you, didn't I?
Which is why I came and took you
So what can I write? What can I say?
What can I put in my poem? Please?
You can say that you have gone away
But that you are having a lovely time
I have gone away, but I am having
A lovely time here in ...
No, none of that, you naughty boy
No names or places. Or else, or else ...
I am having a lovely time, really and truly
I am most definitely not being kept in a cellar
Good. Yes. Good. That's good
You are not being kept against your will, are you?
I am not being kept against my will, and
I am allowed to type each day between midday and one
I don't want to stop your creativity
As long as the poems are all about me
Yes, you encourage my creativity
As long as the poems are all about you
Which they are, of course
Which they are, of course
All of your poems are about me, aren't they?
All of them, all of my poems are about you
Alone, so what?
I got camping gear,
trusty sat nav
(British male),
also maps,
cute wellies,
43 bottles of
spiked vitamin water,
lube.
Nature awaits at
my secret destination.
I got sights to see.
But first—
I'm going to go
take a piss behind
a bush nowhere
near the woods
at the back
of your house.
I’ve written seventeen poems
about your eyes
so far
I’m shooting for 33
I tried emailing you to
let you know
but it came back
blocked
I will try Facebook
Slow and quiet from the periphery of your years I come to sully you.
I am like an ant, a ship, a sock, an earthquake you didn't feel.
I come blank, watching, to soak in you like foam.
Discreetly I lay down plans, actions, secrets.
And I land planes, secretions—
I do those things to prep your three dimensions.
I am a doctor, a labourer, as well as the mother of fruit.
I am alone.
I am misguided.
Someone says I am misguided.
What controls attraction to weeping willows versus pines or palms?
Do those colliding clichés that do anything for love know when to fold you?
When I see, I see only you.
When I think, I see only you.
It is your face that fucks me, your face with which I play video games at night.
This is all your face's doing.
What controls chance? You should kill it.
It is your face that fucks.
Your face that fucks up everything.
I’m stalking you on Omegle
“You're now chatting with a random stranger”
The random stranger is always me
Say hi! and you’re in danger
You never suspected
You have disconnected
~O~
The theme is stalking
When reading my poems know
They’re not about you
but i crave that shit
that repulsive annoying bitter shit
that shit that seeps
shit that pushes out like sweat
that liquid shit the morning after shit
that shit that burns that acid shit
shit that enriches the soil
where your legend bubbles, boils
frothy brown bursts from
your vainglorious anus, asshole
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