Spit on Him

I wear myself in two pieces,
Body torn in half and scratched to embers.
I look at the old pictures and the albums,
And I could spit on them.

It is the feelings made of lead stuffing themselves inside my head,
That we were momentary,
The people move in and out of this pub
And I go to the beach to escape the air filling my lungs.

I go to the kettle, flip the switch.
Remembering how my body used to mean something to you.
You used to map me out like you were on a journey,
Through the curve of my spine, my fingers the junctions.

Maybe my freckles could’ve been the rest stops.
You slept on all my details.
We used to sit under the blankets and talk,
I’ve been transported back to childhood in your arms.

Seeing it snow.
We are that time of night where it is dark,
And we switch on the bedroom lamp to read.
Maybe if this bitterness didn’t stick in my voice like a knife,

I’d be less resentful.
I sip the tea now the kettle’s boiled and the milk’s poured,
I pull up a chair
And I spit on him as the rain kisses the windows.

I used to think it was God’s saliva.
I had weird thoughts like that.
I used to articulate them to you,
And we held hands in the storm.

I carry broken glass in my stomach
And fragments of what we were,
And you plucking your guitar like the notes were made out of stars,
I swallow the tea and spit on him.



I was all there.
Not in the bed,
Not sprawled out as I was,
I was the kid that got dominated by meat and bones and hair ties and sweat.
When the pull of the groin came and left me,
I soaked the sheets.

I was all there.
As clear as rain.
That it was so right to be so full and to be tugging at the new world by it’s stitches,
I split at my seams between my legs.
I was all there,
Heaving oxygen into my lungs and swimming to the surface,
Harder than a diamond,
He rocked my world.

That morning dew,
Sweat in my eyes and studded on my lips,
Covered in you,
Dripping in you,
Basted and reduced and reeling,
Darker than chocolate,
The slaps of our kisses melt us down to stone,
I was the kid belting out the orgasm from the drum
And he was the tapping of the mattress,
Bed red raw,
Hot hands staining my skin in the shower,
Don’t you know what it’s worth to be tied down,
Tied down to one body and tied to the bedpost like Korea kidnapped me.
Night’s going south,

We’re on it again.
I was all there.
I dissolved into the mattress when he was finished.
That is the definition of meat.

Pregnant, Half 3

It is 3:30am
And I am pregnant.
This word carries two syllables,
Two people,
Cupped into each other.
It is 3:31am
And I am young.
That is the burning book between my pupils,
My Bible tossed,
My Qur’an, wasted.
Landscape trashed.
I have been on the absinthe,
And the green tea.
Neither affords me newness,
Look at the limbs growing inside of me.
I haven’t been weeded monthly,
I am pregnant with kisses
And accidents and a tossed condom,
With a forgotten hole leaking it’s way through into my body,
The latex that burst and the womb that burst,
It is 3:34am
And the pregnancy stick waved a wand over my head
And for a while I had two brains,
Two hearts,
4 legs and 4 arms,
Extra organs for extra work,
More air to be inhaled
And more to be known.

I took myself to the garden centre
And threaded a needle through my belly button,
And I unpicked the stitches lining my supple bloodiness.
It is 3:37am
And I have tossed the weeds in the bin,
And the extra brain and extra heart never grew a shoot in spring.

What’s It Mean?

“What’s it mean to be a poet, y’know, to somebody like you?”

“Er, I don’t really, um, I don’t really know”.

One day I met somebody and I knew.
They threaded the moonlight into my eyes.
Scored my heart’s vessels with the Sun.
You said I was a poet,
And words are my language.
These are the verses that take me by my throat and throw me into the river to drown.
And when I live beyond the reaches of the sand,
I stare at the Atlantic on the beach,
All the way to South America.
And I know now.

You said I was a poet,
And I let the trees take each other’s virginities,
Their branches curl and their lips intertwine.
The world goes quiet for a while.
I live in the breast of a seagull.
I am bloodshot.
You said what does it mean,
And it means simplicity
As coherent as whales diving into space
And God vomiting the stars into place.

I don’t know what this business is,
What creation I or any other human feels and writes,
That some take the time to understand,
And others barely blink at,
It does not matter to me.
Value comes from my fingertips,
It does not die with me, I rain these words onto your vulnerable body.
What Adam gave you from his rib,
And Eve then used as an oar to swim with
Through this existence choking between us,

I do not know what it means to be a poet,
To be in a career,
To vouchsafe the feelings of others,
Your sentiments are as good as my own.
I believe in them, too.
One day I met somebody,
And I had all love in my eyes.
I glowed with that newfound woman,
And I took the pen and wrote about her,
How she grew inside of me.
How she had planted many a seed,
And ripened in my lungs.
I exchanged the air between myself
And those fellow daisies.

What’s it mean,
I don’t really know.
I don’t really know what any of what I talk of means,
I speak,
And I’d like to think with every word I breathed a new universe boomed into oblivion and birth.

Frank Ocean > The Weeknd

(N.B. Wish we could all brag about being ” that nigga with the hair, poppin’ pills, fuckin’ bitches and livin’ life so trill” but some of us have to pay the bills to see the sun rise one more time, and as if glorifying ecstasy hasn’t been done before, ugh. I just wanna feel the pride Ocean’s mother felt when he got his Grammy).

Run that mouth into the ocean.
I used to have these values,
They bleed into the sea.
Rubbing cocaine on your gums n’ teeth.
Pretending my ex still loves me.

But watch the world drown and of course,
3 rolls of parma violets later,
I’m dragging myself to L12 at 3 am hearing somebody sing “Can’t Feel My Face”
For the fourth time this week
And I think I’m sick.

I put Frank on because A. His hair’s not trying to be something its not.
and B. I like stories and truths and fantasies
And not singing about feeling sorry for yourself.
Meanings of RnB,
That’s why I say
Frank Ocean > The Weeknd.

But trust, none of that actually matters in this poem
I just wanted a title that sounded genuine to this generation
Because if I had called it “The Fresh Green Hills of Yorkshire”
And put a gif up of a landscape
They wouldn’t have looked, so y’know.

I did give The Weeknd a try though.
But somebody should pass a law which prohibits the use of the word “trill” in songs.
Back to how I feel.
The values rolling into the tide, the vowels spewing the foam,
The emotions curdle and I kiss the sand,

I brush his arms with the syllables of every wave rocking into the coves,
But where’s the absinthe to blow away the memories,
Because nothing else works on me, and say what you like,
Its dangerous
And we need it, Frank drinks it in ‘Pyramids’. I love his sweatband.

Nobody can blow up squares or inject drugs harder than some of the Fine Art students I know,
“What if my mother came over?”, mate, she’ll join in.
I want 3 mugs of green tea, a labrador and a bag of sugared almonds to get me through this flu
All the while the Atlantic coast smothering my ankles with its saliva.
Teeth gnawing.

I remember when all I had was my mother,
And she dropped me into her pool of love and I got brushed into the car
And swept away under the Moon and somewhere far from responsibility
I grew up under a rainbow where childhood never died,
For rainbows to form, it has to rain somewhere.

And my Dad gave me his word
And I mine, that all Earth has to do is show me the way
And somehow the bouncers’ll let me into paradise.
I write and the words bubble and I drink them like poison,
Hearts melt like butter, I stutter at the breeze carrying his smiles

He brushes past in the air
And for a while I am distracted until the night pulls in
And so the tide rubs it salt onto my gums
And so the flat mates rub cocaine onto their wounds
And so the weekend ends and there are oceans of absinthe to drown in,

I am a Fresher and there’s nothing fresh about this experience,
so it becomes a party, soured with separation anxiety, and a distaste for Weeknd lyrics.