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 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
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.


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. 


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

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
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. 


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

by far, you’re the nicest thing
to happen for a long time
and i’ve been finding it hard
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. 


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

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
(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. 

fri sun tue mon thur wed sat

on mondays i drink
with silly people.
at 4 in the morning
they’re not silly at all.

and i need to feed the
child in my womb,
my mother at the door,
the homeless and the

but i don’t have enough
and i don’t have enough
to cook.

so i’m anxiously anticipating
all the kisses on my neck
and you telling me you’re
fed up of this war
and i’m anticipating an anxious
where i’m left wondering
if you’ve ever held at all.

are you sure this is what you
every tuesday and sunday
can’t we just return to
when you didn’t make me feel
such a fright
at feeling anything
at all. 

empty raindrop

there’s this headache of madness
that overwhelms me when i imagine
you crisscrossing your thoughts
and tongue with boys and girls
in the years you were young.

i’m a virgin of love, a widow at sex;
i’ve never held someone,
that’s the least i can admit,
so you with your all screaming,
all fucking- who gives a damn?
i’ll screw any man!- attitude gives me
quite a scare

and a pitiless
at the bottom of my stomach. 


i never imagined sharing my morning toast with you.

we’ve shared dinners and wine,
said hello to your friends and bye
to mine…
what ever happened to Thomas?
or Elisa? Sophie and Peter?
your mother and father? 
is your sister still married, oh damn, i should
just ask you,
but now at breakfast
not dinner nor lunch.

but now i awaken and your arm
is slung across me,
your hands scratching through my
kiss curls,
and i’ll kiss you until i miss you
and then kiss you some more

just tell me when you’re going to be
heading out the door,
maybe i can give you a lift,
just make it before 4.


oh god, oh god, it’s really, really you,
opening the door and letting me


oh goodness, oh my, this is such
a heavenly sweet and ugly

oh boy, oh boy, please don’t tell her-
she mustn’t know,
she’ll care too much,
and i do not dare upset her so

i’m in love with her, you see

but oh boy, pull at my hair and
pull me up and push me down,
and oh boy

oh goodness

oh good god

you’ve got me wrapped and smitten,
my eyes are dead and gone,
my head pathetic and filled with your
voice, your voice

oh goodness

oh no

i can’t even attempt to dress myself

and i’m not quite sure if i’m waiting for you
or if your hands have turned me lazy
but i’m sure, i’m sure
i can’t do anything anymore

so please,
i’m using manners and niceness
just as you are,

but please,
darling boy please,
fasten my shoelaces and cover my eyes
and drive me to a cliff and push me off
so i die

because this headache
this trauma
this lavish crush
is expensive and tiresome 
and i’m a bore with love. 


don’t tell me things you could not repeat
to your father
and we should be safe
and live happily ever after. 

playing cards

i haven’t thought of you
in a very long time
but i saw that you’ve been watching
the news and reading up on atoms and
displacement, and door handles
for your new house
not far from mine.

you haven’t thought of me
at all
throughout the last summer and
but is your room still a mess?
the painting on the wall?
do you still speak french to your dead
sisters and wives?

you’ve lost your glasses,
i heard from daisy who heard from
megan from louise from matilda from
who from that bunch have you not fucked?

i’m waiting, waiting for a letter through the post
a sign from a merchant
just a call at the most
telling me you’ve been thinking of me endlessly
for the past 5 years
because i’ve been thinking of you endlessly
for the past 15.