April poetry 1 – Shoes to fill

Shoes to fill

Dead the year I was born
Nineteen eighty eight
Dead at twenty-seven
I’m that age today
But I’m not here nor there
So I got nothing to fear

Dead from his heart saying
“That’s too much heroin”
I’ve never tried heroin I’m scared of needles
Dead from an old addiction
I don’t battle mine I
Enjoy them I enjoy
Them I enjoy them I
Enjoy until.

Dead while very famous
My Twitter follower count is one hundred and sixty four

Dead while beautiful dead while being a crown
I have no discernible shape
But I am also pleasing to the eye
He was all bones bones Gray’s Anatomy cotton
My gibberish is making me shudder

His shoes are big to fill
With feet that are too small too soft too pink too pale
His shoes are big to fill
And hard to find given that
His aftermath is copyrighted

My gibberish is making me shudder.


March poetry 3 – The Smaller The Dog

The Smaller The Dog

Say hello to
Closing your eyes
And pressing them
Against the floor.

Listen with me:
Clack clack clack clack
Of the high heels –
It’s vibrating,
It’s lodged inside
Your inner ear,
Like a pulse of
A small animal.
And you know – the
Smaller the dog,
The faster its
Heartbeat. The harder
It shakes its whole
Body, as if
Overwhelmed by
Being alive.

And you want to
Sleep like that dog
At some master’s
Feet. Any feet
Would do, as long
As there is a
Real guarantee
That you won’t get
Kicked while you are
Dreaming your cute
Doggy dreams.

Clack clack clack clack.

Any feet would
Do just fine, as
Long as there’s a
Real guarantee
That you won’t get
Kicked while you are
Dreaming your cute
Doggy dreams.

March poetry 2 – Pattern


It’s a crowded space.
Your Guinness is stale.
You are squirming
like a girl made to
take her cough syrup,
and the server hears
how your eyelashes
flutter as your eyes
roll. I squint my eyes
until your features
become familiar
for two whole moments –
the rest of the time
you will teach me more.

Whether it always
begins the same or
has never had a
starting point at all
is of no consequence:

as for two whole beats
you’re reminded
of the circumstances
under which we met.
I don’t know about you,
but I’d been alerted
that you’re a handful.
I wonder what type
of object you were
told I was. Who cares?

There’s never been a
starting point and it
will never fail to
begin the same way:
for two whole seconds
my features become
familiar, and
it doesn’t matter
that we keep failing
to see the pattern.

February poetry 3 – Mars One

Mars One

They are prettier now that they are dead,
Now that we can no longer pinpoint why
Exactly she was a huge asshole and
Whether he ever drank too much. We still
Hear their consolations: this too shall pass.

And we’ll never join them in their frosted
Star-shine, no matter how hard we pretend
That killing them off in the same way and
Arranging their corpses with gusto will
Ensure we’ll meet again. How do you do?

Solitude is for social animals
Like you and me. Is that what hell is like
If you were to believe in it? Is hell
A good place? Is it an up-and-coming
Neighbourhood with hip cafes and antique

Shops and very low crime rate and only
Well-integrated, soft-spoken, wealthy
(But not in an intimidating way)
Immigrants peppered thinly over the
Smiling, bright, pink-cheeked faces? You betcha!

They are prettier now that they are dead,
And so we’ll be as well, one day, after
A sufficient amount of time passes
And no one remembers how we pillaged
This hostile, stinky, dusty and surely
Uninhabitable patch of dirt.