this is me
this is my pain
yeah this
black and yellow
taxi
igunda park
press ganged
into palms
burning in the attic.
cold touches on the forehead
forever
concerete
tenements
bypasses
intersecting
sunshine.
and scooters
sighing on their sides
780 11 803
the number of joshuas garden
it is to me
anyway
expo is spelled ecspo
in your language
dont you think
that’s funny.
ferris wheels
grafitti
pick up games
black and yellow
bose
buses
and bus stop signs
149
406 902.
it is in your hands to save life
or its in your hands to
save a life
in your language
save is feminine
but life is
just life
im headed north in the morning
and
it would make me happy if you come with me.
and
I have to look after myself.
what else do you
want from me?
i dont want to write poems
anymore
because they have this
great way of
putting it all
together
like
fixing it
but fixing things
feels like forgetting things
and then those things fall apart and
everything we put together
just goes up
and when we go shopping
you always say that anything you don’t know you’re gonna wear when you try it on
you shouldn’t buy
in the same way
i wonder
when i share cheesecake with you
and my sister
and she can’t eat any cause of her keto diet
but she does
and everyone smiles
will we pay it all back.
do we have to give it all back.
in the guest room
where i hide in the dimple
in the two mattresses
well the sheet
stretched between them
and relish in the ecstatic numbness
of crying like a child
black orchid
cherry reduction
smell of brother
smell of strong cough syrup
see oak panelled closets
and the asthmatic rasps of our
first night together
and im still
with you