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

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. 

don’t ever do that again

the second time i met you
i wanted to make room for you inside my head.

the first time, you were drunk
and in lust with my bed,
and my brain was intoxicated with
family crises’s and
                       why i didn’t love her and
                                           the origin of liqueur and
your breath stunk of jack daniel’s
your throat swallowed too hard
your eyes could not handle
                                           thinking
i could not handle you.

the second time, it was a monday;
you turned around sharply when you
knew i was coming, and smiled humbly
and i twiddled with the strap on my bag-
i was worried you’d think i was a drag-
instead you introduced me to your best friend. 

our day
(and many days after)
revolved around
cigarettes and involved
smoking them. 

you always taste of marlboro and energy drinks.

but i knew that day, friend or lover or enemy or brother;
i wanted room for you inside my head.

every meeting from there on out
collected memories of your hands
on my hips and my hands
etching the outline of your lips

all the while you were thinking of another girl,
and i was undoubtedly in love with another boy.

but more and more, we began to unite-
our hands would linger longer
and you’d kiss me under street lamps.

my head held a place for you,
and all your songs
and adventures with Russell;
your favourite soup
and all your muscles.

you then got scared, and turned to her,
and i didn’t really care
but i really did care
and i hated you, wanted you
to go wanted you to stay,
wanted you to just
drive away instead of staring at me from your rearview mirror
while i stood on my doorstep,
and you shouldn’t have asked me if

this was really what i wanted 

because then i had to think, then i had to answer
and i had to tell you,

it wasn’t 

and then i had to want you, 
then you had to stay.

but 

every time i try to write about you
i get sloppy and messy and my
heart gets all funny, and i can never
truly finish because i can never truly
stop telling people about you
and i never know how to finish or what
to say to you but i know, i know that
you’re something special and hell, i’m
messy but you, oh you, you, you, you

only you. 

green

through hills and slopes and
silly little metaphors
i’m honest when i say that i
adore every little scratch
on your arm, and mole
on your chest, and i’m trying
my best to not alarm you

but
the way you twiddle
your thumbs when you’re
feeling a mess and kiss me
so hard i may never breathe again;
how you turn the radio down when
you’re trying to concentrate

the way you have to translate
sailing jargon,
how your teeth sometimes don’t fit into your mouth

the way your hairs are always on my pillow,
even when you haven’t slept next
to me in what feels like years-

the guitar on your bed,
the hat that’s always on your sofa,
the way you don’t believe your
dog needs a lead because you’ve
walked him so many times, he
knows where he is needed

the way you hold my forefinger when i’m walking too close.

and for you to me,
the countless ways you have attempted
to convey that, yes you have feelings,
and yes, i need healing,
and i’ll never believe you when you say i’m beautiful,
how not being able to tie my laces is
endearing,  
how you once spent 20 minutes watching me sleep that Sunday morning,
and your favourite thing is that my feet don’t
reach the ground when we’re sitting down.

and maybe, baby, i quite adore you but
i can’t let you know because this could get messy,
let’s just stick to mindless sex and cigarettes and
sorry, honey, but i have to go 

my mother makes me dinner now
she leaves it on the side
16 years and i never ate a meal with her
she said it’s because i’m sad.

my father buys me fine wine
tells me of his friends
tries to make amends
i can’t because i’m sad.

i showed my lover to the door,
every single one i’ve had,
it’s because i never cared
never dared to care, or feared of losing all sense of who i am

but he was different
he didn’t make me sad
but i told that lovely, pretty boy
he’s the saddest thing in my happy life

he didn’t quite like my tale.

i’m sorry to all my teachers
i never learnt a thing

i’m sorry to my therapist
i could never bring myself to think.

i’m sorry to all the poets
i’ve let most of you down by my drooling verses.

today i am sad
and i am sorry for turning mad. 

U.

i’m startled by the graze on your
neck where she held you too
tightly,
the cut on your thumb when she
told you not to act older than you
are

by far, you’re the nicest thing
to happen for a long time
and i’ve been finding it hard
lately
to wallow in misery and
let old lovers get the best
of me

i can’t even write poetry,
because i just get soppy
and whiney and pathetic
and i cry a little over your
perfect back and cute
little hair curls and holy
moly, i’m pathetic and
girly for you.

why can’t you just leave me
to drink and feel sorrow
instead of making me feel
joy and…
boy, you’re nice. 

L.

your bed is a cloth on the floor
and your arms embraced me
3 nights in a row at 4 in the
morn.

i’m not exactly the prettiest
girl but the way you described
every limb and every inch of
skin as being pretty enough
for anyone and all made me
believe that i may be able to
sleep on any

uncomfortable floor
at 4 in the morn
with you
for many days to come. 

for 30 minutes i’ve been
trying here,
helplessly hard,
i’ve had beer for two and i’ve been
analysing 
(everything he says
the way he holds my hand
where i hide my cigarettes
if i love this man)
all in hopes to write a poem
to do with him 

but i can only think of you. 

10 Months.

i’m dancing on sand, 
kissing a man,
she’s gone from my thoughts,
a penny lost in snow

i wait for a change,
the sun to erase
every last bruise
every aching gain.

my father’s a mess,
my mother distressed,
you’re all i have left
please don’t leave yet.

i’m dancing on remains
of winter meals,
she helps me wash up,
i feel a sob in my throat,
i fall to the floor,
she kisses me; sweetly
with want and regret.

this is the last time,
he’ll be there next,
and she’ll forget me for beds,
and warm drunken sex,
but until then i’ll sing,
i’ll bother and bring,
i’ll mess up your thoughts
leave you waiting for more.

and until then i’ll ask,
do you bask in my pity,
and until then i’ll ask,
why won’t you leave me so?

i love you, you know,
from my head down to my toes,
but, my friend, we’re sad,
all men must die
and poems must end.