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.

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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.

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.

February poetry 1 – The One About Death

The One About Death

When I was five I discovered Santa.
I had a pretty good hunch he wasn’t real.
So I would whisper my Christmas wishlist under my breath,
Just so that I could call my parents out on that bullshit.

I had a big enough ego to know
I’d been a really good girl. A good enough girl
To not only deserve all my Legos,
But also a real, pocket-sized,

Dinosaur (which I knew wouldn’t happen
Unless the magic man was real,
And boy did I deserve an ancient
Reptile bird!).

When I was five I discovered death.
That’s also when I found a stray cat
That would have died if it wasn’t fed.
It was a good pet for twelve years after that.

When I was five I discovered god.
And like with Santa, the whole setup
Wasn’t convincing and disappointing that someone
Would lie to you like that in the first place.

I went back to being terrified of death.

It seemed like an unfair end to things.

Twenty-two years later it still seems
Like and unfair end to things.

And I still think I deserve my raptor.

Excessive December poetry – 2

Garbage Collection – Part 2

Are you okay, ma’am?

At last, one of my many itches
Has been scratched just the right way.
Forget filling the holes you never had –
Instead go straight for the blank spaces
In your air-bagged bucket list.

That one day,
The day cleared his stale throat and
Delivered his gentle reminder
That I, too, am made of junk. A chunk of meat
Cushioned by brittle plastic that shattered
On impact. Discard if the seal is broken –

Unfair as that statement might seem,
It does caution well against bruised, rotting,
Disintegrating flesh. Damaged goods.

Are you okay, ma’am? was
Politely asked over and over
As I was trying to
Assess if I was damaged goods,
Which I mostly wasn’t,
And I sure am lucky,
But I could have done well
Without the precious chance
To recall that my body
Will one day be thrown
Right into the ditch
With or without dignity,
Doesn’t matter which one,
Because to be honest,
Why would I give a fuck
At that point anyway?

That one day,
Later in the afternoon, as I was
Passing by the scene of the crash again,
I noted that the debris has been cleared away.
Licked clean like nothing’d happened.

Give us all your junk!

Just like that. You don’t always get to
Join the winning side but it sure feels
Grand to brush by the greatness.

Poem – How can I write about love?

How can I write about love
When the seagulls are circling this dirty patch of the shore,
Hovering above what looks like the carcass of a dove?
They circle but don’t soar.

How can you think about her
When the wind won’t stop blowing all the dust into your eyes,
When you would rather go than look upon that naked bird?
Better blind than hearing cries.

How can we dream about rain
When once hits, it always burns our precious bits of flesh?
When rain has been informed that we won’t leave and need no chains,
We always think it’s fresh.

How can she talk about breath
This easily, as if she’s ever known this rancid air?
As if she can relate…
As if she’s guessed it’s there.

Poem – Scarring light

Extreme star cluster bursts into life in new Hubble image http://www.spacetelescope.org/images/heic0715a/

Extreme star cluster bursts into life in new Hubble image
http://www.spacetelescope.org/images/heic0715a/

Pulled again, slowly, into the stillness of the night.
Left to consider the implications of starlight.
Looking up. Up, as far as my vertebrae will go.
Getting confused whether I am above or below.

Waves hitting my retina – they’re aimless, relentless.
They are a burning reminder that past is endless.
As I strain my eyes to gaze at a wandering star,
I ask it “When did you die and did you leave a scar?”

There is no reply. I doubt there has ever been one.
Or ever will be. Darkness is where silence has won.
You surrender to chaos. Scar. Decay. And repair.
You die. You destruct. What I see is no longer there.