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Sometimes I wonder
whether I am just a face,

a kitten on demand
in the street or via smartphone.

Will I ever be more
than hairless, fragile arms,
a pair of magnified irises,
thigh-high stockings hugging porcelain legs,
pleated mini, open
to the screaming, malnourished nestlings of the internet.

Squealing feeds –
a conveyor belt of doughy oriental princesses.

Let me touch your hair, tiger girl.
I wish to eat lunch with you.

A new generation of Venuses
for the same old penises.

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The Temple

Two boys in a café
talking about how much they mean to each other.

They are in the cavern of their eyes,
on another planet, underground,
-water, -mantle.

Their heartbeats prance around like the voices of bats.

Inside, they’ve built a temple
to which they return
whenever they have had enough
of the big city lights, and the burn
of glassy shopfronts.

They inhabit the temple.

No. They are the temple.

The roof, the marriage of their ribcages,
the leg and arm bones the columns;
the space below filled with their loving
stretches, every day, into new dimensions.

No need for quantity; deeper than quality.
All they need is amity, loyalty, sanctity,
which are as gold as they are silent.

The temple is strong and brave.
One sees chips in the paint and mould in the wood.

The boys once hurled hot acid at the ceiling and walls
but the temple remained. It stood.
It would only fall if they ran out of blood.

The temple is alive and lit by torches
but people walk by and ignore it.
All the better for the boys.
Nobody enters, nobody knows.

At most, some peer through the frosted glass
to squint and sniff: nobody

but a cave, stuffed with treasures
picked up from a nomadic journey:
in-jokes, daisy-chains, pearls of kinship.

The boys choose the Gods and the statues of worship.
Today it’s fruit pastels, cult movies, champion boxing moves.

Stick them all over, roll out the glow-in-the-dark starry wallpaper.
Make a den in the corner with pillows and downy duvets.

The boys can be scared around other people.
They don’t like people knowing they’ve a place of hiding.
Their bodily building. The temple.

People will see us transform
from flesh and human form
into the bricks and stones
of Pandora’s palace.
Our home, majestic. Warm.

The boys lock eyes; they disappear.

All that is left is granite, sun and drought,
and a bulletproof doll-house.

Don’t Slam the Door

Poor lady and her family
on the ground floor,
waiting each day
for the slam of the door:

swinging out from a hand,
it hurtles like a man,
frenetic, carnivorous,
blood-thirsty, murderous,

a force of terror
let loose on mankind.

Deaf, dumb, blind.

vélo-boulot-do-do // other word vomit

vélo boulot do-do
boulot do-do vélo

do vélo do boulot
do boulot do vélo

boulot de vélo
vélo de boulot

boulot de do-do
do-do de boulot

do-do de vélo
vélo de do-do

do lot de boulot
do lot de vélo

love de vélo
love de boulot

love de do
do de love

love de lot
lot de love

do love
love do

love
love

love

lol


a girl around LSE
carries great quantities three
offensive boring dams to
the current of her fighting
walk a snail-trail of droplets
whilst the trees falling sorely
out her hands save the trees don’t
let them go she thought as he
asked to help the dam problem
don’t leave twigs behind don’t mix
leaves up as she searched for her
silent library card


Glowing laptop screen –
my thirsty eyes in search of
a fresh cigarette.


General trivia

It was a few weeks ago that I had the idea of mixing both English and French in a poem, and wowee last night it just appeared out of nowhere from the depths of my difficult slumber. And when I started reading over this patch of unexpected word vomit I broke into a laughing fit, which has also never ever happened to me with regards to my writing. I’ve rarely written something this strange, so please share your thoughts about it with the Noggin.

The events in the second poem did not happen to me personally.

I’m not very good at Haikus. That one there was a last minute addition.


Endnote

Look after yourself and one another.
Take some time on your balcony.

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