Poems

fifteen

/ vm / Leave a comment

i’ve yet to see a woman as beautiful as
my mother applying her makeup in
the AM light— stood in our bathroom, blinds
diffusing ever so slightly.

always brown or grey clinique eye-
liner, always sharpened first, saying
black was too harsh while eyeing
my own black wings. watching that
ritual every day until hospice, i am reminded
to appreciate my self, to take that mental
personal day. shimmer and black liner and
mascara on my fingertips, a feeling of zen
and the hope to be as beautiful as
she was, every morning.

see/say/something

/ vm / Leave a comment

i’ve never had a normal experience on
the F train.

there is no dawn or twilight on the
subway platform, no seasons save for
dank. rats building homes with those
tiny hands, studiously locating pizza
crusts and hotdog nubs. the smell
permeates and wafts, choking me in
the summer months. thick humidity
you can cut with a knife, sweat dripping
down my calves and between my tits.

unrivalled is the intense pleasure i feel as
i wash the day off of me, peeled off in
damp layers, a pile of rubble on my floor.

bang it out

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the familiar ache as i gingerly
alight on the landing. a Good ache,
mind you, reminding me that i am
still myself, i am still here haunting
my own walls for these years to
come. what are the pieces of our
selves we leave behind, anyway? a
note, a warm feeling, a faded
photograph or three. scatter
my ashes at the Frolic Room.

red bank

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“you suck dick like a 25 year-old” he
gasps just loudly enough for me to hear
in this crowded loft of limbs. sweat bead-
ing down my spine, a welcome sensation in
this neverending los angeles wet winter.

it is at this moment i realise, i cannot
recall this man’s name.

easton

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you are a series of smoke and
mirrors, an emotional junk bond
where a man once was; or maybe
you were never really there
at all.

words tenuously strung together by
a simulation of humanity, i fell for it
(but not for you). hook line and
sinker seemed simple because you
seemed safe, a lustful port in an
overwhelming nor’easter. not a
sweet boy, not a fuck boy, but a
sad boy; the Much Worse
third thing. vapour and gauze and
blood and bruises. the mess you’ve
left behind before, shrouded in
mystery for a reason.

LA is a small town and you make
it feel even more minute. after all,
misery loves to tell company
to fuck off.