__

cheated children are throwing
themselves into the sea

howling.
and the wolves snarl up

with raised fists
to corner and threaten,

enclosing.
"there will be no miracles here."

 

december

I saw a lack of comprehension
    turn the nonchalant vicious
and watched with folded arms
    as we wrote elegies,
    and took photographs,
for empty universities, hospitals
sponsored by Coca Cola, a million
children handcuffed, spoilt -

I felt a different noise
    send an ugly biased reality
through the December streets
    red-nosed and bloody
    oblivious to etiquette,
for empty universities, hospitals
sponsored by Coca Cola, a million
children handcuffed, spoilt -

    Dreamt always of 2009.

8979832789r

 

If he has turned from being
 
A young man with a heart,
 
To a plastic bag and a belt
 
Snapped tight around a red neck,
 
Maybe all the late nights
 
And smiling men
 
Don't matter that much, after all.
 
And I wonder: did the plastic bag
 
Contract and expand with his
 
Last failing breaths -
 
Did his body provoke his reasons
 
And throb and shudder, as if screaming -
 
Did he understand what he was doing
 
Did he recognise the disease -
 
    Yet no answers ever come.

 

yeah it's raining

 

Since the decadence of heartache,

All assumptions move aside.

Conscious of my old mistakes,

I've somehow maintained pride.
 

A ship lurching out the harbour,

I push towards open seas,

Abandoning cheap ardours -

Determined to be free.

 

supermarket of dreams~~

 

Our stomachs are bigger than our eyes
  in these small towns of concrete,
  and there will be no victims here -

Our tongues are bigger than our stomachs,
  and then the ascent is halted
  by the Bus of Convenience.

Our stupidity is infectious.
  Key sympton: a hundred dark nights
  in this Mall of Absurdity.

Yes. Our knees are stronger than our hearts,
  so we chase, as pixels, onwards,
  to the Supermarket of Dreams -

 

And Vulnerability

 

And vulnerability is never an excuse
For an absolute lack of self-respect,
So whilst you remain a petty victim
Of your own crude nonsense: I go on.

 

poem written 9 a.m. on train this morning blah etc

 


      We drank neat whiskey and wore your parents' clothes,
it was late, and you looked exceptionally handsome -

      And although I knew that lovers were either fools,
or cowards, or both, I let you kiss me anyway -

      August sank over us, riverbanks splintered;
then I caught you snatching a wink from a stranger -

      But with the gates of my heart wide open,
my brain closed shut; and I was blind -

      September came; it smirked,

      shattering the whole dumb charade.


      We haven't spoken since March,

      And today I saw you, at Waterloo Station,
holding hands with the winking stranger -

      He was sipping coffee, you were laughing,
he must have quite a sense of humour -

      I wanted to walk over, to say hello,
yet somehow, I couldn't quite unstick my feet -

      In a daze, I'd missed my train,
there frozen amongst the scream of London -


      So I stood beneath the clock, watching.

      My sad heart, it hummed -


     

One more. Gotta go be social.

With a full heart and a half-empty glass,
I shall walk down the long lawn,
Across its shadows and patches of light,
And when I reach the house at its end,
I will remember the walk,
And how soft and damp the grass felt
Beneath my bare feet,
And how I knew I would find you
Waiting for me at the gate.
(Even if you are, for now, imagined.)

Yeah, fake romance, again

   



    After the willed amnesia

        Of several glasses of wine

    I sink into the armchair

        And watch you

            Flow through each room,

                The embodiment

                    Of "beautiful,"

            A teenage Midas,

        And I'd rather not rhapsodise

            But with you stood there,

                Nonchalant, untouchable

                -- Darling,

                It's hard not to.



   

weird crap about an astronaut post-apocalypse

All that remains is you
    caught between June and July,
    sweat upon your brow at Durdle Dor
    that time we decided
    to be friends again. We made
      ironic sand castles,
      and swam in an ironic sea
      I was happy that day

    - nothing much else lingers
      in this blue empty.

Yet in spite of all hazards
    accidents explosions yet
    despite this huge gloom the
    six billion now dead (including
    you) our Earth atrophied,

        there you are again,
        holding my hand,
        gliding through the cosmos, and

        I am stuck in the red mouth
        of grief where no alibi,
        change of heart, promise could
        sweep away what happened,
        for it has happened - it is done,

        and I mourn for the first lines
        of all the books I won't finish now.

In this blue room who is all colour
    and in its oblivion,

        you glitter: porcelain wolf;
          your very DNA magical brave, potent.

So here Spacecraft R9T I am,
    peering out the second porthole,
    in my angel suit alone, survivor,
    I watch

        as you (graduation, '07) waltz
        tumble and flirt through time
        and space transcend all barriers
        as you always had done,
        all centuries stitched into you
        all moments ever are dust
        beneath your fingernails -

        yes you Jerome, whom I haven't seen
        in as long as the stars do shine,
        witness me post-Earth
        to supervise my End of Days,
        you step forwards across space
        and the blue room allows it.
        A golden smirk, I smile, because

        God left: and there was you.

04:48, less frantic, late.

God in a bucket, ignored,
And a boy in a jar -
There are wide blue skies,
And you, dancing.

Ever more, I don't
Want to lose this day.
I don't want
To lose faith, to forget -

the 2007, the 2009,
the endless empathy
of your crossed legs
at my kitchen table.

Oceans and solar systems:
I am in orbit
Around your tender humanity,
Your misplaced kindness,

Your arms, pale pineapple,
Which you reached out with
And I, anonymous, trembled,
Wedged upon a broken sofa:

and it's not sexual.
My hunger stumbles,
confused - what I want
is only to hold you.

Yes. It becomes hard
To focus on the mathematics
Of further youth,
The geometry of angst.

Because all I ache for
Throbs within the tender
Timbre of your voice,
You - God, in demin,

icon, stepping through
the night, towards me,
a friend for whom
I cherish a private wish:

Yes, I wish you joy, for
All aches to be justified,
All bruises to be healed,
Each night to pass softly.

At your side, I could
Perhaps accomplish glory,
Find a diamond where I thought
Only the monsters lay,

though you, wretched prince,
could never understand
how blackened I became,
beneath streelights, neon,

where my legs moved unknown,
dancing through new cities,
chasing a future which your
beauty would not fit into.

03:18 22/07/2010, frantic

and nineteen years old suddenly,
but i won't ever let it show,
until i turn twenty, brave:
enough love to fill a canyon,
but i can't divulge details -
enough love. enough anguish.
too much to fall apart,
too young to fall in love -
instead, obsession, the
wide gates opening always,
since ten years old and
perpetually collapsing,
gasping, and, well soldier,
if the heavens ever do receive me
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"darling, what's the use?"
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"who walks on water,
if i build you a motorboat?"
i will turn to the Lord and
i will say,
"never cry, because
the world sings for us -
the freaks, faggots, vandals,
this is ours - this patch of time -
this song in the depths of a night -
these are our hours,
these are our ghosts,
this is the omen
and here are my hands,
shrieking to you, O Lord,
to give us acceptance -"

and gasping, restless,
we toss and turn,
bizarre creatures,
fragile, courageous,
and hungry for a future.

so i read a lot of ginsberg yesterday

As our grinning nights
do crumble down to
pixels so shall the cities
the literature the factories
all fall down.
This blue room where I
first read Ginsberg
will eat itself too,
the whole earth must plummet,
for History
is an amnesiac, the papers
thrown to the wind -

Then in a thousand years

that first kiss of ours,
October '07, Indian summer,
will perish and cease
to have ever existed.
But in 2591 the sci-fi aliens
might fuel their cars
on cathedrals London sirens
Moby Dick hospitals, on
love petrol, our dead October
every dead romance

now dust, all dust, at rest.

Here is what happens that nobody speaks about:

1.) Boy slips down concrete set of stairs, knees buckle, jeans rip, blood spills, drunk and gasping. They have ran off shouting and laughing. Could call the police but won't, doesn't, he isn't hurt enough, they didn't do enough visible damage. Phone dead, face red. Injuries are already turning into grazes and bruises - mementos; the pain mutes into a throb. "Faggot!" they shouted. Their fists came, he broke in two. Pulls himself to his feet. Up, onwards, home. Wakes up with his face stuck to the pillow: dried blood.

2.) Miscarriage in the shower. She didn't know she was pregnant.

3.) Puts a pillow over her face when he fucks her. 20 years of marriage and his eyes are still vicious but he never looks at her. Lurches and grunts, one last thrust - he pulls out, penis quickly flaccid, embarrassed-looking, slopping against each thigh wet from her insides as he goes into the bathroom. Alone, she breathes rapidly, turns over. Between her legs, what he put in her slips out, sticky, sad, expected.

4.) Long sleeves in the height of summer: stabs whatever she can lay her hands on into her arm. A glass of wine for courage and then the razor digging inwards. It is as graceful as a ballet - the frenzy is over - she sighs, leans her head back. But the hysteria resumes (that unexplainable feeling inside her heart!) and she needs it again - fast, quick, a flush of red. Afterwards: washes her arms, applies a makeshift bandage. Sleeps easy most nights. Wakes up smiling and does not look at her arms.

Side-Street, Stumbling: (should probably start updating this blog properly at some point)

Side-street, stumbling:
A lit cigarette and
Wide sad eyes.
The outline of a rib-cage
Under thin fabric.
No empathy now;
The thud-thud-thud
of the music.

Blasphemy!
Their bodies move in time.
Smeared lipstick,
Slurred speech.
His face beneath
Neon hysteria,
Emptied of feeling;
Its anonymity - crucial.

Open mouths of hunger:
Well-earned, badly spent.
Knees bloodied,
Gutter to gutter -
The old bruise resurfaces,
Lingers and discolours.
The street lamps sigh.
They are amnesiacs.

"despite my circus tricks" procrastination: revised from old diary scrawl

despite my circus tricks,
contortions, rituals,
my omens and magic spells,
the reinventions (husband,
shaman, harlot, ghoul)

you would rather think of
me as spotless, clean,
patient; an altogether
better creature, a passive
life form, pristine,

devoid of priorities,
devoid of blood, guts,
bowels, bones. a eunuch,
bent over, in prayer in
one way or the other,

yet if i were flawless,
i'd also be bound; i
wouldn't shout, shriek,
fear that you'd made me
a pedestal, a dinosaur,

so break the shackles
with the butcher's saw,
and let my pulp heart go,
for it beats far better
unfettered, alone -

Wolf By Night

I was once of
The precious ones,
But monsters came,
To steal my songs.

They tore my clothes,
They cut my hair,
And insects crawled
From everywhere.

I grew sharp fangs,
I knew no fright;
Yes, I became
A wolf by night.

Against the rain,
My ribcage chimed.
The monsters snarled,
But they were mine.

Beneath streetlights
My eyes shone wild,
I turned untamed,
And learnt to smile.

So take my words,
For they are true:
To survive, become
A monster too.

David

The hungry boys do not understand that no matter how hard they kiss or fuck or punch, I will always be more hungry. Their hands shape into fists which are sometimes friendly and sometimes dangerous; but I am far more dangerous. The boys do not understand that if I invite them in and lay down beneath them, I am always somewhat bored, regardless of how vehemently I feign a gasp or a groan. They do not understand this because they have been brought up to seek blind, aggressive ownership of everything. The secret is that I was raised that way too. This town and these hands are as much mine as they are theirs.

morality

the trouble with morality is that it is a target, not a possession. nobody can truly declare an action moral or immoral. one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. we are all dogs and we are all deviants - any comment to the contrary is bullshit. immorality SINGS through the retail outlets, avenues, car parks and industrial estates that piece together my suburban town. there is vomit on the pavements, tramps in the street, and blood (once or twice) on my hands. it is easy to confess a sin and continue sinning: to disregard self-reflection in favour of further hedonism. whatever your vice is - cigarettes, reality TV, cocaine - it is keeping you breathing and helping you to survive. there is no long term when it comes to addiction: the hunger claws at each second, whilst the future sits, aloof and unhelpful, in the distance. in daylight we are our own judge - the pasty face in the mirror, the crack in your voice, the necessities of stomachs, bladders, bowels; but by night we succumb - and we succeed in succumbing, our hands tied and bound by alcohol, short skirts, and mediocre music - where the lights flash, the voices heckle, and up above the stars twinkle, forgotten. at night, it is our own special campaign, our own british death; the rules twist and flex beneath the lens of liquor. by night, we vindicate our same sins that we compress and regret when they are unearthed by the unforgiving light of a new day.

life tricks and survival tactics for the small town idiot

1.) think about what you wear and think about why you're wearing it. every time you put on an outfit, remember how many editors, designers, artists, decided you were going to put it on. then take it all off and put on something else.

2.) learn to function in a world where anything you say or do or associate with can be splashed across the internet in seconds. (therefore, don't take naked pictures of yourself. don't say things online which you wouldn't say in person.)

3.) sometimes walking away with superior disdain is the best method of attack.

4.) praise is as much of a form of control as violence/peer pressure. think about regina george in mean girls. be aware of sycophants and disregard 50% of the compliments you receive.

5.) keep a journal. on the backpage of the journal, keep a list of songs that make you feel powerful, happy, alive. listen to at least one of these songs every single day. carry the journal on your person as often as you can. that way, when sudden events happen and you're drunk crying into a tray of soggy chips with blood down your face, you'll know which song to sing to make yourself feel better.

6.) lady gaga exists. therefore you should too.

7.) sometimes it's nice to turn off your phone, stay in and get drunk on your own. this may end in you getting really upset about (relatively) trivial problems and listening to celine dion. this does not make you an alcoholic. this is sometimes unavoidable and often enjoyable. as long as you still wash your hair most days and leave the house, you're still doing ok.

8.) knowing and understanding our weaknesses makes us strong. therefore don't ignore your flaws: embrace them, manage them. if you've got a habit or an attitude that's wrecking your personal life - look at it, acknowledge it, and move on.

9.) keep moving. keep going. continue.

10.) bitter single people can be as insufferable as in-your-face happy couples.

11.) to quote regina spektor: "you laugh until you cry; you cry until you laugh." take every negative emotion you feel with a pinch of salt: likewise, throw yourself full-heartedly into any positive mood that catches you.

On "Telephone", Terror, and Tories

If you haven't been aware of Lady Gaga's latest music video, you're either severely disabled or ignorant of all pop culture. (Or, you know, you're busy doing something more important like saving Haiti/raising a family, but that's another issue entirely.) Let's assume you've watched the "Telephone" video, and have been, however vaguely, aware of the conversation as to whether it's excellent, obscene, feminist, sexist, disgusting, artistic - or simply all of the above.
The video is simultaneously extremely superficial and deeply multi-layered: she references Tarantino and Ridley Scott whilst posing in lingerie and dancing (as I'm sure the Daily Mail would put it) "provocatively." She lampoons American culture whilst throwing herself, naked except for fishnets and some black tape in the appropriate places, against the bars of the prison cell which we find her in at the start of the video.
So is it degrading and dehumanising? It doesn't take much flicking thru the music channels on your TV to find far worse examples of female exploitation - the sexy laydeez 50 Cent has lurching around him in pretty much all of his videos (to which I'm kind of like, "Er, Fiddy, are you trying to compensate for something?") and, most recently, the video for Timbaland and Justin Timberlake's new song "Carry Out." In this video, Timbaland and Timberlake, dressed in suits, sit whilst women pose seductively next to them, serve them food with a cheeky, subservient smile on their lips, suck on cherries - basically they do stuff I've never seen a real woman do in my life. In short: the female form is still abused and objectified in, let's say, maybe 50% of the music videos you see on television and the internet - at least.
Therefore, what I don't get is the disproportionate outrage at Lady Gaga. Sandy Rios, president of the Culture Campaign (which seems to be some typical fundamentalist Christian American group), described the video on Fox News as "poison for the mind of our kids." Wait, is 50 Cent poisonous too? Is that 3OH!3 video gonna corrupt our kids because it's got promiscuous women in it?
The shock and terror some have felt towards "Telephone" and its (apparently) krazy obscenity, aren't because it features nudity and violence - in fact, the video is probably a lot more tame and kitsch than a hundred other music videos. The problem isn't that she's showing off her tits, or kissing a girl (Katy Perry, Black Eyed Peas, t.A.T.u have already done this, to name a few.) The problem is that none of the erotic aspects of "Telephone" are designed or performed to arouse and thrill men - the problem is that Lady Gaga's a free bitch, baby - the problem is that the video is fully, fearfully, female.
It's unafraid and unashamed - similar imagery in a different video becomes (to quote feminist writer Elizabeth Wurtzel) "a form of enslavement meant to please men, not women." But Lady Gaga's relentless, sexy female aggression saves the video from becoming mere pulp and porn. The prison that forms the video's initial setting is called "Prison for Bitches." And what do we take the term "bitch" to mean? Whilst being an insult - a female dog, not a real woman - its newly reclaimed, third wave/post- feminist meaning is more understood to be (and again I quote Wurtzel) a lifestyle of "libertine abandon." And I'm sorry but is there ANY better term for Lady Gaga and everything she embraces and endorses? You hear that, Justin and Timbaland? If this bitch serves you some food for you to stuff down your sexist face, it'll have poison in it and kill you. The video's not promoting murder, promiscuity or the heinous crime of not wearing many clothes: it's doing the opposite - empowering the female form, after decades of its degradation at the hands of pop culture and the (white, middle class, straight, male) corporations.
Last but not least, the whole thing is gloriously, deliriously QUEER. Whether Beyonce and Gaga are supposed to be fucking is irrelevant - what matters is the sisterhood between them. The kiss between Gaga and an inmate at the Prison for Bitches is done with a deliberately androgynous aesthetic - is it a girl? is it a boy? - mimicking the real-life rumours of Gaga's hermaphroditism, which she has deliberately never quite cleared up. The video's cast (besides the dancers) is predominantly female/other - they are butch dikes, slim femmes, transsexuals. In short, they are examples of some the most under-represented minority groups in mainstream media. When did you last see a bunch of beefcake lesbians on your TV? Lesbianism is another area continually turned into pornography for men, comedy for men, and titillation for men. Just check out Katy Perry's disgusting "I Kissed A Girl" or Britney Spears and Madonna's HAWT KISS at the VMAs a few years back. Fake lesbianism sells and Gaga ain't buying. Instead, "Telephone" is a gloriously trashy, sexy and queer music video - putting parodies of a subculture under the lens of mainstream media. In a world where so much culture relies on objectified naked chicks, Lady Gaga is emancipated and empowered - a role model for free bitches, fat dikes and camp faggots.
So considering the upcoming election, what do the three main political parties have to offer all the free bitches, fat dikes and camp faggots? The Liberal Democrats are kind of like the Miracle Whip Lady Gaga uses in the "Telephone" video - a cheap version of the real mayonnaise. Nick Clegg's promise to ensure schools teach homosexuality as "normal and harmless" and legalise gay marriage are obviously GREAT, but considering the party are (at best) 20% in the polls, it's fair to say Nick Clegg could say whatever the hell he likes without any regards for a realistic policy to put into place come May.
And then you've got the Tories - notorious bad guys; a bit like the guy Beyonce and Gaga kill in their general historical outlook. The last time we had a Tory government, poll tax penalised the poor, council housing was sold off and not replaced, public industries were closed and privatised at the expense of countless jobs, and the unemployment levels were at times far higher than they have been today throughout the recession of 2008-2010. And I haven't even mentioned the Tory's history on gay rights.
Let's bring in another Gaga analogy. Anissue some have had with the "Telephone" video is its supposed glamourization of murder. OK, they pretend to kill lots of people. Yeah, maybe some small children will see it and think, "Hey, that's cool! I'm gonna put bleach in my Mum's moisturiser!" Maybe we'll all start killing each other on the streets. But what about the Tory party? It's well-documented that the suicide rate of men is double that of women. The closeted gay male taking his own life is an archetype of modern tragedy. Whilst the teenage suicide rate was climbing higher and higher, Margaret Thatcher put into place Section 28 - making it illegal for teachers to "promote homosexuality" with students, and making it nearly impossible for schools to combat homophobic bullying. Whilst the legislation was in place, statistics show that 4 out of 10 gay teenagers had harmed themselves at least once, and 77% of gay teenagers had been bullied. So maybe the Tory party - including the fresh, modern David "Hug A Hoodie" Cameron - are the murderers we should be looking at. With no Section 28 as a hurdle, teachers and support workers could have intervened in homophobic bullying and promoted tolerance and acceptance - which could have stopped the countless self-harm, torment, and, sometimes, suicide that gay adolescents were driven to, partyly thanks to the unforgiving, nasty Tory legislation.
It was only in 2003 that the Labour government repealed Section 28 - and substantial numbers of the Tory party voted against the homophobic legislation's repeal, including David Cameron, who also (surprise surprise!) voted against a law entitling lesbian women to the right to fertility treatment. Cameron described gay rights as a "fringe agenda" as recently as 2005. So be wary when you hear Cameron talking about how much he loves gay guys, how great lesbians are, how positive a contribution we make to society.
Compare the decadence and depravity of Lady Gaga, that queer icon in the making, with the stern and selfish past of the Tory party. Isn't the former more fun? If you enjoy gay culture, if you are a gay person, if you like a gay person, if you want your pop culture a bit queer, a bit odd, a bit different; then put aside your wallet - and don't vote Tory at the election. Vote Labour - Vote Gaga.

Family Album

Who is this man
With Grandma's accent,
An A-Z in the pocket
Of his second-hand slacks?

Who is this woman
Wearing high-waisted trousers,
Outside their tiny house,
With the wind in her hair?

Who took this last picture,
After the wedding,
Their faces turned away
As closed as tombs?

They stand together,
His Oxfam suit rigid.
She wears a white dress,
And the cake is cut.

regret is best unspoken

Don't go and risk your hunger,
on a man who won't care.
You're hardly getting younger.
Find justice in despair.

Write a poem, or act aloof.
Dream of him if you must.
But don't dare to tell the truth.
He wouldn't like the fuss.

Regret is best unspoken.
It seldom helps if said.
Then no heart can be broken,
(though tears may still be shed.)

Dance all night and pray he dies.
No ache could ache enough.
Sometime soon, you'll realise,
you never were in love.

SECOND PLACE

Been hunting thru old files for decent poems for my uni portfolio: found this and it made me laugh. Wrote it in my early 2008 Dorothy Parker phase:


SECOND PLACE
I have settled for second place:
to have been your first fuck will do.
I have my wine, books and cigarettes.
So who cares if I still love you?

Foolish Heart

Miranda says you're an idiot. Miranda says you're a malicious cunt, shit on a shoe, filth. Miranda holds my hand and tells me I'm fabulous, fabulous, fabulous. She gets me drunk and sometimes it works. I hurl insults at you as if you're in the room, swig vodka and compare your orgasm to a pig's. But it doesn't work: we turn out the lights and go to bed, and soon Miranda is snoring. But I lie awake, and your face appears in the ceiling. I shut my eyes and there you are still, walking towards me. You say, "David, are you gonna talk to me or am I a malicious cunt today?" You oink. I apologise, embarrassed.

What hurts is that you will have no such hallucinations. We share no night-time visions. I imagine you seldom imagine me. My appearance in your dreams is rare, if at all. (Do you even dream?) I am the hungry one. I am the coward. You raced ahead; new city, new haircut, new men.

Miranda says, irritated, that I need to pull myself together and move the fuck on. You're not coming back and I should stop whining. I feel bad. She's right, of course. Miranda has her own problems; she does not need to be consumed in mine. I have a foolish heart and you stamp and shriek in its atrium.

If you're reading this, come home.

You, Asleep

the start is better than the end: i haven't edited the last paragraph. any critique or comments definitely desperately welcome:
- - -



are we still at the beach? have a hundred years gone by? the floor feels too soft. my legs are too heavy and i can't smell the sea. i can smell old clothes, baked beans and that incense (you claim came) from tibet. i smell you. i smell you on my skin. opening my eyes and the dim flicker of your lightbulb blinds me. forehead tightens. did i fall back into your bed again? taste of vodka and something else in my mouth. at first i hear you: your deep indifferent breaths of sleep. tilting my head i see your naked torso facing away from me, your modesty kept by the duvet thrown across your legs. your skin is almost orange in the dim glow, you have not turned into a monster, you are still the handsome boy who won me over. i watch your gorgeous hips, thin waist, strong shoulders settled in hibernation; and to watch you sleeping is to see a famous work of art in a closed museum. you are the mona lisa, you are the sistine chapel. unconscious, you seem more innocent than your wet tongue in my mouth (and elsewhere) did a few hours before. reaching my hand gently down, cautious not to wake you, i can still feel where you were inside me. i am not as pure as you: my veins stick out along my thin arms like warnings. my fingers touch my thighs, and downwards i bend my knees up and trace patterns where the duvet hides my body. earlier i fell against you, under you, into you; but now i am scared to touch. i want to fall back asleep with my head rested against your chest. but if i touch, you might disappear. you could wake up and leave the room: or you could crack into tiny pieces. i don't trust magic the same way you do. you are only a foot away from me.

i watch the ceiling, that bland magnolia terrain. i spy fluorescent plastic stars glowing slightly in the dim light: you must have been eight years old or so when they were new and out the packet. maybe you had trouble sleeping on your own, you needed an artificial sky; now you have trouble not sleeping with any boy who smiles at you. i imagine you back then: naive skin, hairless, baby teeth. no cigarettes choking your lungs; no spots across your forehead; no hair troubling your upper lip. the tenderness of childhood. i shift onto my side. staring at the ceiling, your plastic stars cascade against my naked skin. i close my eyes and imagine you, turned away, opening yours and gazing upon me. i strain my ears to hear the mattress shift as you turn over to run your fingers aross my side. you do not. instead you start to snore. i need to leave, i want to walk the empty streets; but i'm drugged by sleep, my body is heavy and your bed is warm. i want to wake you up on purpose. i want to prove you're not such a work of art. i need to address my issues: why do i only feel handsome when you're on top of me, when your eyes gaze down into mine like i'm the most beautiful creature you ever saw? do you do this to all the men? oh, i spread my legs like a good boy. i open my legs and drag you under. i walk the line between saint and slut and yet somehow it is you who decides when and where i can kiss you. it is you who keeps my legs apart. you are my commander: i swallow all of your evils.

be calm, be calm, be calm. be daring, david. slowly and shyly i move across the mattress. the bedsheets are fine silk against my shaking hand. this close i am warmed by the heat of your body mid-slumber. this close i can hardly breathe. this close i forget that a few hours before you were closer, faster, nearer, harder. sometimes when you fuck me, you're a stranger. we're reckless, combined, chained together, until you buck your head and your hips and groan that groan i know so well; but somehow, to be alone with you tonight, as you sleep and i lie awake, is something far more precious.

i inch across the bed towards you, cautious as a thief. the mattress is treacherous: any creak or squeak could wake you, and i prefer you when you're unconscious. i remember the night now: the sparkle of miranda's dress in the discolights; the vodka and the cider and the unnecessary rum; the clatter of smart shoes (and your contrary trainers) down the steps towards the sea. i remember spinning in circles. i remember falling to the ground in laughter. i remember miranda's wide toothy smile, and how maude swept across the dancefloor, drunk, oblivious, ecstatic. i remember my ninth cigarette because you lit it for me, your warm hands cupping mine in the cold air. you stretched out across the stony beach, pebbles scattering. we sat opposite the girls, the moon shone down, the city lights glittered; and i felt like i belonged to you. maude fell asleep in miranda's lap. her fringe danced timidly in the sea breeze. miranda wrapped her jacket over maude and gazed at us with a melancholy look in her amber eyes. "it's a beautiful night," she said, "and i'm a little drunk." you shifted and the comfort of your shoulder against mine disappeared; you threw a pebble at maude to wake her. we stood up shakily and walked home through the drunks and the sleeping homeless. miranda hugged me close as she and maude went their way at fisherton street. "careful, david," she muttered into my ear. we fell up the stairs to your bedroom. the moment the door was closed we fell against each other.

this is not important now. i can feel your arm touching mine, its hairs tingling against my own. your face is turned away from me. your chest rises and falls; my heart thumps so hard it must be breaking. nearer to you. nearer to you. i let my body untense, i let my hand unfurl - fingers brush against your hips - the sensation has me gasping.

as i lift up the bedsheets to crawl fully against you, like a homesick foetus, you wake up and throw yourself out of bed. "fuck's going on?" i shrink to my side. you're half-asleep, and suddenly standing naked before me. your flaccid cock slops from side to side as you stumble against the wall and smack off the light with an outstretched and angry palm. everywhere darkness; darkness but for your plastic stars, grinning from the ceiling. you crash into bed, muttering swearwords. i remain silent. your vague syllables and sleepy breaths tingle against my arm. "who's this?" oh no. you slide towards me smelling of our shared stink of vodka. "who dat?" you say. and then your hand is softly upon my cheek feeling for my bone structure - do you recognise my bones? my nose? - and, unbelievably, your other hand cups my face too. "david," you drawl, "it's you, oh it's you, it's you." you're drunk and half-awake but the words set me on fire. my mouth smashes into a smile i cannot control and couldn't predict. my body swings towards you without a thought, and your arms pull me to you. "it's me, it's me," i whisper. your mouth is against my mouth and your chest is against my chest. i feel our hipbones slide against each other: your cock curls by my cock: our legs fit together. your fingers draw those belated patterns up and down my back. you kiss my neck, mutter, "beautiful boy," and draw me closer to you. i shiver and i smile, fulfilled.

(my head fits beneath yours, beside your neck. your body cradles me. and it's better this way. this way you can't see that i'm crying. you wouldn't understand why i'm crying. "what's wrong?" you'd mumble. but nothing's wrong. i am just another boy to hold; you are just another boy to hold, too. everything is fine. i am in your embrace. it's all only fun. but can't you taste how desperate my hunger for you is? and this is why i cry.)

be a bit afraid of me

you should always be slightly afraid of me.


"you should always be slightly afraid of me," i said,

you slid your heels across the hallway,
a squeak of floor polish

and said, "i don't get scared of things i've got
      or things i've had."


oh shut up. you never had me.

"i swear to god -"

"what?"

(you are always so alert.)

"i said, i swear to god -"

"god's for children."

"for christ's fucking sake, you never let me -"

"what?"

"- finish!"


typical sensation of hatred choking my throat,
      everything blurs when you're near me.
      i either want to fuck you,
      or strangle you.

i know you talk shit, and i know you're an idiot.
i know you steal jokes, boyfriends, opinions;

but somehow, i forget,
somehow you catch me, and BANG -
      "oh david, come here," - and i fall down again:


are we still in the hallway?
has a hundred years gone by?

the floor feels too soft. my legs feel too heavy and i can't smell polish. i smell vinegar and that incense (you claim came) from tibet. i can smell you. i can smell you on my skin. did i fall back into your bedroom again? at first i hear you: your deep indifferent breaths of sleep. tilting my head i see your naked torso facing away from me. your skin is almost orange in the dim glow. somehow you are still beautiful.

i try to look up to the flickering light, but the ceiling is too far away.

"o pegasus"

Why do I only update this blog with things I write really rapidly five minutes before. I am not apologising. Anyway:


O Pegasus, you left a mess on my bedsheets
And I need everything clean again.

You mine, and I yours; two horses
thru a night sky, in feral flames.

O Pegasus, you broke your head open
And this is no time for casualties.

Farewell naive Disney daydreams.
I borrowed his wings, fell to my knees.





I HOPE YOU ARE HAVIN A LOVELY 2010