Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Day Seven

* You get two poems today, lucky lucky people, as I can't decide which is worse.


“I’ll be back in a sec,” I say,
“to strip your sense of self
and fuck you ‘til you can’t remember your name.”

“Make love,” you say, “out of
all these body parts like years
leading to something we can only mis-term ‘knowledge’.”

“Oh yeah, spread your brain like legs
and let me in so I can forget the day
and afterwards, like reading a clever book

you don’t quite get, I can pretend
I learnt something.” “You tit,” you say.
“We both know

that underneath your silly little facade
resides an empty coffin covered with dust
just waiting for someone like me to fill it up.”

“Huh?” “We both seek the void; at least
one of us knows what it means. Now spread
my legs and let me climb inside.” I look down

at that open invitation and find
I’ve forgotten where I’d been invited
and if I even wanted to go in the first place.

“Girls are so much better at misogyny,” she says.
“What does the word ‘dictionary’ mean?” I reply.


Did you notice how Freddo’s
look like they’re sucking suggestively
on their index fingers? We did,

and we chose to take it as further evidence
of the (not so) subversive sexualisation
of children in Western culture. Also

we sometimes like to eat so much
that we couldn’t fuck if we wanted to,
and we think this proves our love. Perhaps

it’s best to face up to facts: that
everything we do (and I mean the collective we)
is like taking a pen to page and just

scribbling. Anything we form is coincidence
and it’s easier to stay
in the jumbled disorganised line breaks of our lives.

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