6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)

(1)

i can’t explain
i just wanted to cry
and you wanted a cigarette.
go then
that’s when tears started
it gave me shivers
my whole body moved
to riot
revolt
revolution
we laugh because they are funny.
right?

(2)

later. the river looks so dark
and full.
leaping a little far into
distraction
from the rain
we talk about floods.
as the red light curls
with the gold
you’ve never seen it from this side.

(3)

only the water seems shiny
everything else has lost its luster
better when it wasn’t legal
better when it was free

(4)

i told you already that it was shit
i told you already that it was fine

(5)

once we’ve reached queen st
just on feet.
we close our eyes to the blaze
white light
right. this is a shopping mall
sliver woman with no vagina
advertises handbags
(i know cause i checked)
(you know cause i told you)
do the lights turn off?
do the manikins ever see the dark?
are they always bathed in white light
and does that make them angels
who is light like this for
at 3 in the morning.

(6)

at the last bar, they serve me
Gordon’s
but you’re the only one complaining.
we drank Tanqueray when it wasn’t legal
we’ve got better tastes
i know.
i know.

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6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)

Tourist

and that night, she grated her face upon a palm tree

cause mama pays special heed to splinters and spines

stumbles on a bus home

gets on for free, takes lots of pictures

imagines she could kill the world over, and over, and over, like turning

soil and replanting

and that night, she lied about everything

she imagines she could lie herself to a different place

stumbles back on pavement, wonders what a car feels like

if it could take her to space.

to ocean. and that night, she knows you are following her

and that night, she screams at traffic lights,

because she knows she’s gonna die

and that night, she just says hurry, hurry, hurry

get it over with, i’m tired of the slow creeping

just fucking split me open to bitumen, bleed me out,

try and love me with your choker hold,

try not to love me at all, try not love making corpses out of me

and that night, she watches boys in the distance

playing football under stage lights

remembers running for her life

being taught

to love, being hated

 

 

Tourist

roadsidekillings

laying in the strip of grass
roadside
a body sunken
the corpse of a possum struck from the
sky, now flat and resting
settling in for the long sleep
it’s exciting when they change the ad posters
at the bus stops
in this suburb
makes you feel less
deserted
neighborhoods have a funny way of
doing that
they hold you so close and tight
you begin quickly
to feel isolated
nobody really lives here
they are all pretending
to be wives, to be husbands, to be daughters, to be sons, and dogs, and old couples across the street
when I pretend, i pretend to be dead

roadsidekillings

Angel: (1)

when i was a child/an angel fell into my bedroom/covered in eyes/

i din’t know anything about blood/beauty or/isolation/

but i knew about keeping birds/i took my scissors and/clipped all six of its/

wings

angel made no sound at all/all it did was stare with its body of eyes/

i had a very strong feeling that it/was trying to peel itself open/

such a desire to be flat and thin like paper/

 

Angel: (1)

queen/drama

over the phone is easiest/my mother always said i would make a good actor

my eyes rest easily on the floor/my mother always said i went crazy when people visited

i say yes, i would love to meet you today/my mother always said i was a drama queen

BUT ALONE I HOLD THE SILENCE BETWEEN MY EVER PARTING LIPS

MY MOUTH OPENS SO WIDE I TURN INSIDE OUT THAT IS WHAT WE CALL PANIC

MY HANDS FUMBLE IN THE BATHROOM CUPBOARDS AND FIND THE REMEDY

i paint my lips with deep red blood/my mother caught me once trying to be a lion

the only difference is that now, i feel obliged/said i would fool the world

 

queen/drama

September with DeadRed

in September we spoke about red riding hood

about the stories we tell little girls

to make them afraid of the woods

isn’t it funny how she dresses

like shes already been

murdered

she dresses like she’s covered in

blood

maybe

she already is dead

in September i go to a poetry reading by myself

a man stands at the microphone

and tells us that

it isn’t the wolf’s fault

that little red riding hood should have

cried !WOLF!

men and wolves don’t know anything¬†

why would she cry wolf?

when she was raised by them???

 

September with DeadRed

Assumptions about spaces

Assumption 1: girl
Notes
There is a horrific cry from within the walls of the small bedroom. Indeed , as usual it says that everything is disappearing very quickly yet the walls crawl, enter and occupy its small ears.

Assumption 2: her anger has no gravity
Notes
Always appears to rip itself limb from limb- dislikes wallpaper and furnishings. Gets red in the face and makes a lot of noise. Tries to convince us it is wild fire.

Assumption 3: boy (only in the event of the denial of assumption 1)
Notes
Will at once discontinue being homely and will become an occupant of space (instead of space itself).

Assumptions about spaces