Queered Practice

Country music may be
Three chords and the truth
But you are jazz,
Baby girl
You are fractal and infinite
Points of intersection
Innumerate
Logical chaos
Skyscrapers and tunnels
Co-exist
Every window made from
Honey,
Glint and echo
Bounce beams 
Of meaning like silver
Threads, making a map
Of you
And the city of your
Mind sprawls in myriad
Directions, anchored
By crossroads forged
Of tonic chords

maintenance

there are stains
all over me
begging to be scoured 
away
there are faultlines
bone deep
screaming to be bridged
together
there are doorways
of synapses
pleading to be figured
out

99

He would have been ninety nine
Didn't live long enough
To disown me for a second time
Never knew I'd miss him anyway
Razorblade cheekbones
Never could quite turn away
He described me in a scarlet letter
Meant to fold me in
Instead I cut the tether

hybrid

different not special working-class bluestocking forever skint pregnant with expression abundant filthy virgin whore for words heavy-handed wit whispers screams resistance tidal brainwaves divergent locked in loner loud clean kitchen bed moated by books tornado energy couched across from the tee vee truculent tranquil sister daughter helper lover high stakes low chances heart on a tightrope soul on a cloud hear her skin sing under the needle see her mouth leak under the rope feel her hands burn under the pressure take her down lift her up turn her to face the mirror mirror on the wall who’s the phoniest of all all for nothing nothing matters more than this this is her last chance chance favours the bold bold and busted she is just. About. To. Break.

history repeating

my mistake
for confusing quicksand
for love
never did learn the difference

boys in bands

shrouded by mosh pit limbs and a midnight blue velvet jacket pre-rolled darts in a silver case in the right hand pocket lighter and lipstick in the left i scribble notes for street press for unpaid unofficial underground apprenticeship pick up the bassist and back to his where he performs his nonconformity by declaring love for skinny puppy and rude boy boots he has a foot fetish and my high arches appeal in their filthy black patent stiletto heels i get bored during foreplay stare at the unwashed jeans on the floor the smoke stained paintwork the sex pistols poster that is on every wall of every boy in every band in every white city every morning the reel to reel soundscape of the third bus home sixth bus to work dishwasher knife in hand scripted good mornings double shot lattes for double breasted suits they were boys in bands once too now second life mortgage marriage measuring up making do i mend them with a smile clock off scribe copy ignore the bassist save something for tomorrow sit out the first song