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

in the sunlight
in your shorts
or your favourite yellow summer dress
i imagine
cheap wine and cheese to dine;
plastic forks and
bouncing off every tree

i imagine dogs barking at me
and you
oh you
smirking at the
stupid boys i’ve kissed before and the
sound of water and the snatch of my
breath at 2am when your hands slide
between my

honeyed hair, and do you care to dare
to tell me what you said last night
(do you even remember)
and do you dare to hold my hand
with care and dare to dare and care
and be fair

because in the sun, mixing letters
and money i’ll always wonder
who you’ll next think of
when you miss someone


5am Droolings

your door is red and the handle
airbrushed out by an old lover
who never saw fit to wear
your hats or jumpers or
shoes purchased on a sunny

you’ve had no friends since may,
only pretty girls to kiss your
veins and pretty boys to
dismember your fame.

what’s a lovely boy (like you) doing with a
silly girl (like me)?

you spent a while
forgetting me
and now you’re back
rougher than a detainee.

leave me alone
i’m saying
leave me alone



he latched onto the sleeve of
my shirt and hurt my skin
with his jagged fingertips

i realised then
that i was in trouble,

and all night i’ve been
turning inside out and all
about his words by the
tides on the sea

about a girl
he once
and how he knew now
i was happier with another.

but i can still feel his
rough fingertips and bitten nails 
swiping my shoulders and
ruffling my hair
before he left

i’m now a mess. 

she didn’t know you for the most 
important 12 days of your entire

my covers are creased in worry
and i still lie in that bed sometimes
and remind myself of when you
were mine.

i haven’t blocked you from my
windows or walls

when are you going to pick up
my calls? 

she was stolen by the moon last
sunday night
                    knowing i’d never see her
                    again gave me quite a

darling dear, my most treasured
times are spent with your hand
in mine and some pathetically
cliche message inked onto my

may i kiss anything inscribed
with your name,
the covers of your notebooks,
the old school essays;

                                                                may i kiss you
                                                                even if i bore
                                                                you soon? 

my first born child carved
from my womb may not
bloom as beautiful as you.

thank you, sweetheart,
for letting me use you in my art. 

you’re making me dizzy you silly
little boy, but i’m glad your
left you
because now i can continue to
draw you on my canvas.

may i say
it’ll be a masterpiece. 

you were



you were there when i realised
i could not walk in tall shoes.
on my mind is

and my favourite pair of heels
that have a stain of your scent
on them. 

jack my darling boy,
she’s doing it again
and i’ve fooled myself as i was a fool
with you;
what should i do?

i don’t know, i don’t know, i don’t know
i only hear that she doesn’t know and
neither did you

i suppose.

(yet i love you more than the handle to my room). 

In August I put a bag over my head,
tied my hands together and placed
myself in your sleeping bag.

You found me dead at four in the
morning, my wrists red and my
eyes rolled into the back of my

but I awoke three days later,
surrounded by trees and
money and lots, and
lots of greed.

A woman in silk threw rocks at
me as I rose, and I grabbed her
by the face and attempted to
lace my hands through hers.

be quiet
she said.
She never spoke to me again.

You mourned me as I mourned you,
I could never reach you again.

My skin is soon to be reborn,
perhaps we’ll speak again soon

my friend. 

i’m wearing a dress that
smells like you and all it
is doing is making me

i want to cloak myself in
your entire scent but all
you want is to throw me
to the side.

perhaps tonight i shall
burn this dress. 

i bought a book from a market stall
on 77, next to belle’s bakery. the
book held no sunshine, or candy
or cuteness; imprinted inside
where the tales of bonnie and
clyde and jack the god darn

every night i turn off my light
and attempt to read it in the
i pretend i am bonnie;
fair hair, blue eyed-
helplessly in love with a mad man.

but i reverse the tale,
i fall for another male,
jack the ripper;
killer with a cause.

i wonder now, had bonnie chosen
a different man than clyde,
would she have ended so badly
or helped jack with his doings? 

i wonder now,
oh how i wish she had,
i crave for her to have had
the best of time.