hello

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

'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
                   authority.’ 

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

MESSED UP
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

Maybe
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

Well

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
wedding

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
hers
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
her.

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
else. 

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
earlier. 

every

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
hummed. 

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

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
baked.

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
that

you cannot draw the
eiffel tower from
life 

and

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

and

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

just be put-off

(worrisome)

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

ago

and be bothered

and know our
youth has

(vanished)

if the next time we see
each other

is singing Sunday hymns. 

black book with a blank page
and what a waste to be spending all my

daze and my
laze on something i can only word
as hate

and if i were to make an effort to reform
me and you and every-
one we know
with a special touch of the special stuff,
we’d become:

social and
silly and
spectacular
and sad.

so, my friend, the black book-
scribbled and drawn onto with
your credit cards and
rolled up notes with the
queens face

cannot be replaced
with last friday nights kiss. 

there is a slight annoyance
in the freckle by your brow
when i mutter
of november
and october
and every month spent with her
where you tell me of
how
the weather in the air was
always so much warmer
than my loomy, moody
coldness

and how she gave you the
affection your momma always
left you without
and how her kiss didn’t burn
as bright as georgia stars at night
and how i left you with nothing;
i gave you money and
drinks and cigars
and hate

because they are things i have only ever been shown
and you disagree, because you want
to show me more, you want
me to want you and to
not be wanted by
her
but i dare you:

(if i said i despised you
would you stay or
would you fumble for her
name in the phonebook
and later claim it was
all my fault?) 

i dare you, boy.

last night
(under my window)
you sat with your legs crossed and
your hands were
lost and tangled with my own

you asked; i said i was fine,
you said the worst hurt of all was knowing
you weren’t mine

(because i’m constantly constructing that
damned boys hands on my
chest
kissing my
breasts
walking down the stairs,
going back to dorset).

i told you, i told you;
i wish i could be good for you,
i wish i could be all for you

you told me, how you told me;
it wasn’t my fault,
it wasn’t anyone else you love

but you’re just scared, i’m in love with someone else,
it’s my darkest secret
my frequent demon

but it’s not like i choose to love
a disgusting, vile boy
who treated me worse than anyone before. 

baby, i don’t mean to make you sad,
but before you i was bad,
my brain swirled and words weren’t there,
i couldn’t breathe without intoxication.

you’re the nicest sober thing to ever be mine;
i just only wish i could be yours.