Two Poems

Another Autumn Journal Chaos

(AKA Do Not Put This to Music Because You’re How Fish Put Up a Fight)


I know what it means makes a great first line. While you paid by credit card

an alien inside burst out of a person. Do not consider at least smarter song lyrics.

My mental health or something like my mental health said you were forlorn online.

The light of the screen was a poem about looking up at you in the shower

while I was beginning to undress to be in the shower with you. An egg just fell

from the sky and cracked. An usher came over to tell me to turn my smartphone off

so I paused the movie we were streaming. I’m thinking intensify most statements exchanged.

Yeah an egg just fell from the big grey sky. We thought we were going to be late

for the ballet. I really hope Anonymous doesn’t blow his fucking brains out

in the restaurant. Anonymous started to sing in the way I used to like a young Benny Hill.

There were no celebrities present. The sky was indigo when I told you I’d been atmospheric

as a kid. The ballet cast seemed so beautiful in the shower. I mean wow.

Then we said we loved each other. We got over this. When Anonymous says he loves me

I tell him I love him too except he got Anonymous pregnant sometimes. My love is sometimes

a small bird that’s a bomb. You responded by saying that I make you feel like there

is no fucking orchestra and then we told your face and mine. I said ‘Is there no orchestra?’

You were like ‘Pure No’. We put the most beautiful thing down beneath you because you

were menstruating. The ballet was non-committal. Involuntarily shit. I was just staring

at my smartphone in an insurmountable poem. You said ‘That’s not the point I’m making.

You always panic when parking the car.’ You want to make me sing again but not like

a young Benny Hill. I laughed like a loon off camera because you told me you hated that

neither of us seemed phased by the cool rain, chronic depression or no chronic depression

during sex. The music wasn’t loud enough to make people mature sexually and we can’t keep

our fucking hands off each other. To be not really into giving it our all at the ballet you make me

want to write as many poems as I can per day. My love is a power ballad spuriously entreating

the glorification of my own personal vanity concept. My heart is in your hands like it’s a small bird

that’s a bomb. You used Google Maps to find out where I’m socially anxious and a permanent

disgrace. I could be doing with the money but Ecstatic Health is a shitty title for me to ghost.

Where is this fucking orchestra? Yeah I puked but then I was happy at work for the girl who smells

like onions in butter, the girl who holds my heart in her hands like it’s a small bird that’s a bomb.

Sorry about that at different points in our lives. At the interval you gave me petty cash to assess

the random alien observation. Upon being asked by the usher had I heard of Blue Waffle

I got intuitively sad and yeah I’d mixed my drinks and eaten only the egg

that fell from the big grey sky and the ballet tickets which were kinda expensive.

I’ve never been immediately happier in the pale folds of a wet dream in a previous life.

The costumes were stupid and I was annoyed for a moment. Then the computer died.


Death Cult Summer Haze

(AKA Stupid Fucking Love Poem Phase)


Might only be feelings but these feelings suggest that my fat heart a stupid fucking love poem

about how we were in bed when a helicopter in the truth about hard drugs wasn’t feeling the heat

of our naked bodies using military technology I told her about the recently raided cannabis farm

I told her we would blow their fucking sensors when I watch my girl lift weights I feel too much in love to write stupid fucking love poems my mother said it wasn’t safe to walk home without a semi-automatic I memorised the lyrics to Hang Tough bussin hammer pants I wanted to kiss her cheekbone to find out if in fact I don’t do a good sad the post office clerk could be porcelain behind

the plexi-glass there is only one way to learn about hard drugs I won a prize for a photograph

of my parents they look so happy Bon Jovi made the whole thing surreal I wanted to kiss the skinny arm of the graduate dentist can only ever be compared to a double cheeseburger for your breakfast

does not have teeth but her own mouth’s ice cream clam sugar clouds a bolt in a vice a closed eye

a two channel video still of the crest of a wave made of feathers a skate park a walnut a mountain

went over the house towards the border she asked me if I thought they could see in only bra

and jeans grinding her back molars as if she was busting to speak on the investment of emotion

in Gmail chat there is no emoticon for how much I want to fuck expect to find a photograph of your

self you never knew existed I was embarrassed by the brevity of my status updates now you get

paid to cake you guileful face if this stupid fucking love poem was a movie it would be straight to

DVD I got listening to Sinead O’Connor’s no 1 cover of Nothing Compares to You on repeat it seemed like everyone who was anyone wore a Naf Naf jacket the shape of her things is poetry

not stupid fucking love poetry please read my feelings responsibly with a correct attitude extremely

changeable weather I’m mature enough to admit that beneath a supermoon rendered with an after

effect of gaussian static I wrote her it was the advent of ecstasy DJ Tizer Eddie Wray please excuse


is a writer and audio-visual artist.  His book Pangs! is available from Test Centre.



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