i want to kiss damien rice, drink with ernest hemingway and marry f scott fitzgerald

have a nice day

my gay self

my gay poetry

im sick of poetic bullshit. the best way 2 sum me up is that im so depressed everything is funny and i think im the best fuckers

i'm the biggest faggot


don’t give me anymore drugs

you said
when you were 10

don’t give me-

but your words oozed
and were blue and
didn’t make any sense
as you came
in and
of the conscious  
that was your

you kept asking for 7 minutes.

opening brown eyes to meet
your mothers and your fathers
and our Father and

why didn’t they listen?
when you screamed
in the sea
that you didn’t want to be
on the ward with the cancer kids and
beaten kids because you
were a normal 10 year old boy
with the spark to be
a superstar

who now wasn’t far from
being lost in the sea
with your
soul and limbs. 

it’s amazing how much
life you can experience
from a hospital bed. 

you lost your virginity to me on
(once your own but
now) our

that night you didn’t remove
your limbs and you
kept the conversation flowing
and you chose to kiss me
of all the things you could
choose to ever do

it wasn’t even as if
you didn’t want to.
right after you admitted;
'i've been wanting to
do that all day,’
and boy do we know;
we had had a long day.

soon enough you were feeling
my arms and the last time
this had happened i felt
harm and blue but no desire-

but this time,
our first time’s,
you made me feel new. 

i’ve loved you then
i’ve loved you now
you’re all i’ve thought of for
the past
364 days/
i’ll think of you for
the future

baby you’re my best friend,
don’t ever wave goodbye

baby you’re my best friend,
let’s go get high
on durnford street.

baby, staddon heights is burning
i’ve stitched your name
into all my headbands

i love it when you play guitar
but still love me with all your fans.

meet me in 29219 days
i’ll show you baby
i’ve thought of you for all this time. 

'the meadows'

sounds so nice.

you held her hand
'round the earl and instead you
did not find
me at home trying on
my mother’s pearls
for the last time

i’ve now spent 281 days
paying the price.

she mangled up your hair,
took your last dime to pay
for her taxi fare home

did you go for the ride with her?
just to give the company?

and sure, you thought
i’d be fine with it
and still fuck you as if
you were mine and whatever’s
mine was yours.

but why lie
every time
i asked you to put down the phone
and come back to bed
where you are the king
and i am the throne.

'the meadows'
sounds so nice

will you take me there? 

Soft as she whispers
It’s falling through the trees
She’s counting all her pennies
I’m counting down in threes

Her supersonic stigmas
Reminds me of Thursday eve

                   ‘You’re my sputnik
                   sweetheart, revolutionarily 
                   rationalizing my
                   stupidly sour and spare
                   of the second
                   rapturous respect and

So… Shy away instead of
flourishing, and then
finishing and fucking me
and you
no one else
can love you, darling
Because you’ve

I’ve really messed up
my shit this time

Fuck it

Give me another drink
Another lavender lullaby sent with
the love of my baggy brother
and black skinned racist
I don’t know where my heads at
She’s definitely gone for good
Thanks to her grandparents for
raising such a bastard whore

she should’ve stopped after
the fourth man she met in her
third week of

knowing me. 

R n B

She took my money
And all my clothes
She simply left me
With dirt on my nose

I helped her out of her frilly, tight stockings
Bit off her false nails with my teeth,
She wailed and she moaned
But I know she loved to be touched.

Joe asked me if I’d been up to much-
But how do I tell him I’ve just been up on my toes?
I’m loving his girl, she’s 15 and pretty sweet
But sticking to the loose and the mothers
in the Barbican bars


Let’s just say I’d prefer to bring up another man’s kid
than take another man’s girl
Who is young enough to be my daughter. 

this time
last year
i was planning on what
dress to wear to our

and now i mustn’t even
dare of planning what
to say to you
the next time
we meet 

In the darkness of content,
Amy gives you all.

Do you keep your hand in
for worry all your cards will
fall into mine?

keep your heart strong
and your legs wise;
Keep your body at the heart of day,
let her guide you when i can’t
spell my own name.

Do you feel okay? When I’m
reading my words to another
boy, when I don’t even hold
the smallest remorse
for letting you feel right with

I am sorry for hitting you
that night in Stonehouse-
I’m sorry for kissing him;
letting him undo my blouse.

for walking you home still
expecting a lift, causing a
stress when you pulled me
down on that hill.

being annoyed you’d smoked
all the Camels with everybody

holding your hand after finding out

and making you realise this
was the last time you’d ever
be so close to my mouth. 

But (this is achingly true)

I am not sorry how wrong you were
with her
but for only how I did not meet you


i want to read every drunk text
you have ever sent/every word
you have ever written/every
letter of intent. 

i want to hear every chord you
have ever strummed/every 
scream you have ever yelled/
every song you have ever

i want to see every ocean
you have ever sailed/every
girl you have ever kissed/
every breath you have ever

i want to touch every mole 
you have ever had/every
hand you have ever held/
every person that has made
you feel bad.

i want to mend every muscle
that’s ever ached/every broken
heart you have ever had/every
crumpled cake you have ever

i want to know what i am the first of;
what kind of kiss/touch/fuck/hold?

i want to know if i make you feel
loved or old or groggy or clean?

if i make you feel enough,
i’m sorry if this is all too much. 

build up

don’t be off-put

you cannot draw the
eiffel tower from


i cannot play harmonics
on the piano as
beautifully sounding
as beethoven’s pieces


how neither of us
care that jesus paid
for our smoking and
drinking and
drug fuelled beach trips. 

just be put-off


for the day i leave you
for an artist in paris,
who can pay for the
piano lessons
your mother promised me
all those years


and be bothered

and know our
youth has


if the next time we see
each other

is singing Sunday hymns.