Weekend Poetry: Three Poems


the salad box is open

and forkless

it stands there in the singsong of your fingers

against wet edamame. in my imagination

you smell like steel, if steel had a smell.   

you look like

rockstar drizzle and look like a swan,

or droplets. it doesn’t even compute.

you tower over my industrial lipstick.



girls in their late twenties patronise girls in their early twenties

silently, in their heads.

the fatigue

to recall what held them back when they were twenty-two.

girls in their thirties patronise girls in their twenties overtly,

examine their tobacco armours.



girls in their early twenties promise they’ll never patronise anyone.

then we all swap places:

I myself was reborn a Catalonian nun more than once.



  1. 1. The day Shrek's wolf smiled in the field of daisies I was practicing my screaming. Seeing it with more clarity than a bureau document, or vipers in a glass. I believed I could scream. I sauntered down the wolf's house with the assured cadence of a choirmaster. 

  2. 2. The wolf’s brothers are lean. They clean their teeth with sticks. Two-way radio each other on the hills, with news. The wolf, as a child, made too many mistakes for them.

  3. 3. I used to eat raw spaghetti while reading. Crunch farfalle: a glob child. Could I scream, then? I don’t remember.

  4. 4. At the end of term my vocals were found faulty. I didn’t gain in volume and aggression through practice. It felt fineable, delinquent: I thought the wolf would lambast me. All the blood was still in the buckets. The wolf had promised me a good time, clicked his tongue twenty-seven times.

  5. 5. Twenty-seven times he clicked his tongue.  



 the girl can be successful. she can achieve, a prime minister,

the girl uses vernacular, puffs away,

draws a skull then rips the drawing apart.   

the girl turns 30 and considers pigeons.


the rose compass guides the girl when she is a theatre director

with relevant haircut, protruding labia minora, manuscripts

that ring like bells in the drawer. ageing in the act of sex.


she detests the social workers always referring to her as "Mum",

sentences like, we need to see what Mum chooses to do

and, if Mum says so, yes; with her, Mum, sat right there, 

next to the whole team in a room which makes her think of farts and not much else.


I've had jobs which were the intellectual equivalent of sucking my own spit, the girl says.


in work and poor, poor like a mouse poor

like a flaming lip -


when it comes to Love the girl is desirous:

she’s seen the novice getting married to Christ, the rosary beads in heat,

and doesn’t think the azure flames were electrical



the girl is lonely: I salute my own underwear, she says,

orderly on the bed’s white starched corner.

I spread my legs.


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