Sale

first i will kiss you as if it's going out of fashion
like there's a discount at my favourite store and I am
launching myself down the aisles with great passion
then i am going to scoop you into my arms like
discarded nineties garments and hold you tightly
because all the other offers mean nothing to me.
This poem is one giant cliche the words are nothing
if not painstakingly arranged but feel free to
read my label and believe that I am not
interested in an exchange, that I am
completely dedicated to this cause,
of a love ......... so intense
it is not avaliale in stores.

* * * * *

I'm going through a phase of writing shit poetry
and posting it on the internets where anyone can
see it, then feeling really uncomfortable and
embarrassed. It's odd. I feel masochistic.

I wrote this around February-time in 2008. My relationship with Mark was deteriorating and it's really a mix of nostalgia for life in my first year at university and the fun times of the second. Despite the bleak outlook of rotten food and unruly gardens, there was a feeling amongst myself and my housemates which isn't there now. Excitement perhaps, for both doing things and devoting a day to not doing anything. Acting rather than talking ourselves out of things.

Someday We’ll Graduate

And often I think of how my life
Is made up of photographs
spacespaceand battered postcards,
spacespacedisappearing house keys
spacespaceand loose change as I take
spacespaceroutine bus journeys, drink
spacespacecups of tea with stained brown rings,
spacespaceorder early morning pizzas
spacespacein rooms which spin
spacespacefrom too much gin.
spacespaceMouldy bread and broken eggs and
spacespacemarijuana on the window sill with friends,
spacespacethe poetry on the fridge documenting the obscene
spacespaceoutside a garden that is mostly weeds.
spacespaceThe kitchen ceiling leaks through the fog
spacespaceof a Tuesday hangover
spacespaceand Saturday afternoon lethargy.
spacespaceGetting lost in the library and losing yourself
spacespacein a club, or a book. Highlighting
Lazy Sundays, hours of chess,
Bacon sandwiches and lying in bed.

This evening, following a nap brought on by the aftermath of a night spent in a boy's bed, I wrote a follow up. It's less nostalgic. I feel pretty sad about the way this year is ending. Life feels more downbeat nowadays, and I really miss that feeling. I think it will get better and maybe I just woke up extra grumpy today, but this is my poetically lethargic sigh in the face of final year life.

At Last We Graduate

And sometimes I wonder if this is
All there is; the endless essay fear
spacespaceand floods of tears,
spacespacediscarded Keele Cards
spacespacewhich leave me stranded
spacespacein a world of failed revision
spacespaceand successful KPA sandwiches.
spacespaceFruitless Facebook chats behind
spacespaceclosed locked doors, bored,
spacespaceon clothes-covered floors.
spacespaceCigarettes and short-lived pets and
spacespacespacecakes in the pub with friends,
spacespacea poo chart hanging in the loo
spacespaceand emotional late reunions at two.
spacespaceThe stale, sad sight
spacespaceof a Saturday hangover
spacespaceand Sunday library trips,
spacespaceplotting painstaked prose and
spacespacequips in evening workshops. Remembering
Enthusiasm for waking late and wasting time,
Companionship, and your body next to mine.

I will Google Truman Capote when I get home

A man my age wearing thick black glasses
is sitting opposite me on the bus reading In Cold Blood.
His knee is moving in time with the buzz coming
from his headphones and I stare at his face for six seconds.
He looks at me. I look at him.
We look at each other.
I think: coffeekissingsexlovemarriagebabiesdeath.
I stare at my feet until it is time
to get off the bus.


Do something, you idiot

I will spontaneously lunge across this table
to push my lips against yours
and probably pull a muscle.

Settle

A line that doesn't begin with "look, if we're going to do this"
is enough for me to wrap my tongue around your tonsils
and breathe you in. You stand like Superman;
invincibility makes your muscles tremble
but like the dust which hugs these neglected walls
I have merely settled. Please don't feel inferior,
for once it's dawn and we have drained ourselves,
when you ask me how many other men I've held
I will give a number much lower to make you feel superior.