Drowning Again

you need to leave now.

i woke up with a pile of plates
being hugged between my arms.
i thought i was dreaming when i
went to the kitchen and grabbed them
for comfort.

they told us we would hear the whispers
of our neighbours between the walls:
i didn't believe them until last night
when i wandered to the kitchen
looking for protection.

when i came back,
the entire room was ruined.

A Trip to Anna Sui

strange it has been made
by this business of people
that want to be your friends.
if you don't know where it comes from
you will never find it beautiful;
glittered and glazed,
my nails smell like baby powder,
and after shave.

good getting the good stuff

Brown Paper Bag

1. you're standing in a parking lot
with a dead goat in front of you,
his legs, hind and front, have been tied
by your hands.
you stand against the graffiti, crumbles,
with a skirt on your legs and a bag on your head
(everyone else should be wearing a bag on
their heads but its only you).

2. after bar binge:
the alcohol in your head
blurring your vision
screaming pizza, pizza
so you get it to go and take it home.

3. you wanted to keep the frogs you found
as pets so you hid amongst the rocks
and watched the jumping warted toads
eyeing their way back and forth,
and caught them and concealed them.

4. the barbeque blew up again
but this time it blew up in your face.
you cut holes in a paper bag for eyes,
and you cover the second degree burns so your
children won't have to go through the pain.
your face scabs over
and you remove the bag
and they stare, shocked and speechless
at the gentle monster in the living room.

5. you have promised
your friend that you will help him die,
but he's all out of plastic
so you tape the paper bag to his head
and tie his hands behind his back,
and watch him suffocate.

Waste Land

you're a wasteland,
representative of an entire nation
en vogue.
you're an icon,
coming home late with each of your costars
wearing their clothes,
drinking them silly,
drinking you silly,
wearing your clothes,
and changing your style with your character.

first: hippie lover, good looking, clever,
holding on tight to your surroundings
before finding the shame in your own face,
(you're always getting naked)

second: drug filled, littered mind,
punk rock stripes, better than the rest,
not needing anyone, needing anyone,
losing your mind, fucking your friends,
skin and bones (this naked on camera)

you're a wasteland
a perfect London icon,
for us to keep and be
we who were living are now dying
with a little patience
and perserve the wasteland.

Tripping the City

i wrote that
(about falling on the icy ground)
after attempting to write of you again,

its been so long since i tried
to write of you;
so long since i have cared to see you
to know that you were there.

you are far away, and i smell of ginger,
or of china, town, china, of the boots
i bought while i wondered
where in this city you reside.
while i wandered this city wondering where
you might have subsided.

where you might have formed your thoughts
or formed a thought that strawberry
thoughts were beautiful.

you're always disappearing
and reappearing here across my head,
across my forehead, across my swollen hands
dancing in the boots i find trying not
to think of you.

the pearls i find, trying not to think of you,
the stares i find
trying not to wonder where
in this city you might have wandered,
might have come out so close to
where i'm trying not to find you.

Skinny Anorexic

The light is dark.
The view is dead.
The mannequin is murdered,
cardboard breast revealed.

Unleashed:
Black
White
Vertical striped
Puckered sleeves
of your creative spark.

Made from your dark.
The day in here is dark.

The White of You and Me

milky smooth and
cream skinned white
(richness hanging from me

my every command)

your crocheted cap
does nothing
to distract your eye
from the milky white

and pink and blue and peach
and yellow
of the colours of my eye

my new eye,
(you must smell my milky white
and wonder
why i'm with you

why am i with you)

the papers here
are white like my skin
cut corners like my skin

move this
because there is nothing

either i or you can do
to eleviate the milky smooth

of difference between us

The Stitching on Kingston

who painted glaze
on the road
tonight

who painted
orange

on the glaze
tonight

pushed me
slow
ly
to
the
idea

of no feet
below me

Conversaton in the Living Room

ok, sooo you know how like people are
really insecure and they use certain things
to hide it, like their hair colour
or their jewellery or their outfits?

silence
silence
silence

no...

(hmmm ok, lets try something else here)

you're about to become a hypocrite.

Skatter

beautiful.
beautiful.

i said it twice so i would hear
your voice in my head again.

(i'm always writing
four-liners about you)

Hamlet, WAITING FOR GODOT, Whatever, Marissa and I and our fucking afternoon of INACTION

i want breadsticks.
yeah: breadsticks and cheese.
i wan to try out for things
you should.
i'm going to.
ya you really look like you're going to:
skipping acting class, can of chunky,
STALKING the actors.

Martha Focker

when you think back to Cannes,
you're supposed to remember
the beach, the houses, the stars,
the riches, the glamour.

when i think of Cannes,
all i can remember,
is you being asked to
clear the front of Fendi.

you're the prettiest freckled girl i know,
and you are going to sew for the world,
but sometimes the things that come out
of your mouth make me wonder what
Ghetto area of London, you grew up in.

(i almost forgot your last name)

These Girls I Fall For

this is to die for what i see
here in the coffee shop,
of all places.

a lovely artist girl with
her portfolio and a vente of coffee.

misty, ornate,
is it wrong that i stare,
that i listen to her, that i
want to see her;

and you're an artist,
what a beautiful girl,
i want to be you.

you on the other hand,
confuse me:

how have you perfected your
eyebrows when the rest of
you is so wrong to the world

They're at the Gap if you want them (the WHITE DENIM, its at the Gap)

"isn't it too early
to wear that colour?"

"it's never too early
for anything."

my response
to your calculated
rules of fashion.

(this is why i'm better)

All The Women Hate Freud

deconstruct me,
i know you can.

i am the daughter
of divorce,
of child abuse,
more specifically,

i am the daughter
of a mother who didn't know she could have
what she wanted,
who got depressed after she lost it.

the daughter of a father
who gave me everthing i wanted
and who hated me for my wants and values
simultaneously,

hated me for defending my mother
and her point of view,
her philosophy of the world,
or maybe it was i that hated,

either way,
the dinner table
was an uncomfortable situation.

i am the product
of bad mistakes
and bad judgements,
of wanting to get out of a math test
and embellishing

the way my father
kicked me.
that wasn't embellishment.

deconstruct me,
i am the product of a
Freudian agenda,
not where i wanted to have my father
but where i sided with him
and started to hate my mother

because i hated her
and i hated her
and i hated her for no reason
other than

that she was there
(she didn't have my father).

Marx and White Denim

your denim will be white,
like the lies you tell yourself
to keep breathing,

your prosthetic lips,
red like the blood that will
grace your fingertips,
the belt around your waist,
unfrilly fashionable,
the colour that will be left
after you cut off all the spots
on your body you don't like.

the world is human made,
can be human changed,
but you are all the same.

Ikke Noget Som Dig

I've never
invested in opium,
so I couldn't tell you
what that drawer's like .

"So how are you Braveheart?"
Buddy,
that's Robin Hood.
Get your shit sorted out.

Preface to the Edition

I want to die,
does that make sense?
Wordsworth makes me think
I want to kill myself.

The man in the taxi talked of war, of the shit of returning to society. I've heard of you, I thought, but I didn't say a word.

most concrete things I believe in
can be erased with a few words and a little knowledge
which I usually don't care to hear,
enlighten me please because your
words are far more political than any
thought in my head.
i'm not intrigued by racism
because i've been white and wealthy
from the second I was born.

i think you're grand and gorgeous.
maybe this will shut those people up.
i'm tired of coming across you over
intoxants and expectations.

did you think i was kidding
about that, about you,
about kissing strangers on foreign
bedspreads in messy bedrooms?
about wanting you to walk me home
and not just hand me some money
before swearing in my face and sending me off
in a taxi.

if i had to show you who i was i would hand you
a picture of a little girl in a white sundress
dancing in the grass which shouldn't mean
that i don't want you.

Found You at the Voting Polls, Patriot.

Georgia!
Sweet Georgia!

I found you with your face
turned in toward to the wall
as - per - usual.
And a look of sweet surprise
as I shocked your shoulder with my finger
(little girl in lacey pink, am I).

Georgia!
Sweet Georgia!

What a bunch of hometown decadence
you bring
to every chance that we encounter.

(What I really want to say,
has to do with the pages of naked women
hidden in cardboard boxes in the garage).

Enough of that you silly girl,
Only good for Mr.Georgia.