Remembered suddenly my noswaith dda attire
my trying taxonomies of sing song
my motionless carriage &/ my empathy carriage
and that I tried to strike the note of clasp-breast horror slasher maxed-out body resurrection.
At least tried my best, then.
I can’t but pity Exonymic countries
or cobbled together lucky folk, steamy flashes
and celtic music makes me tired.
I can try and declare myself friendly, but I am
terrible and to be noted, wind-slapped,
aching pussy, not sure what to want.
In the apples the pips burned.
Stood in the coachyard teleologic,
had a personal jesus on a pin.
That was something that was passable as sex, at least.
I suppose technicalities made this regrettable.
I have a synthetic lemon feeling about it
the way murderers like it, clean.
Maudlin is not the same as macabre.
Do whatever you like, he says,
and, I, sandalwood,
dream of the threaded lip,
the pursuit of needlework,
bicarbonate of soda citric,
hurt me hurt me
hold me hold me
I shouldn’t have to explain.
Look at my flaws
all around my life like chickenpox.
Wondered whether I’d die like
this with a cock in my mouth, that’s
a flashback, that’s why everything has a trigger
warning now, that’s when the idea
becomes hundreds of droplets, panic.
We weren’t sure if that went well or not,
none of us are sure whether that went well,
when I was 18,
when I was 18 oh god
This poem is from All fours, my debut collection. Out on 23rd June with Bloodaxe. More information here.