i loved your sanndy hair:::

:::you used to nearlywear it to
your shoulders - thicker
than syria, coarser thann 
you anti-cobainn, 
you fringe sitter.
you wondered if opiates would make you sleep better.
mum didn't.                   you chose acupunncture
to tap into northern rock and relieve the recession.
                                                  dad was redunndannt, you
                                 said it felt like being coerced into vodk
                                                                       a a
                            nd dribbled superinnjunctionn on peer-pressure
                                          after a couple of rounds of gulf
                                                            gusted into ta
tapping a tomahawk on the table
in mcdonnalds, with an illegal hangover,
you used to begrudgingly re-explainn

how it feels to kick a sixth former(
                                    the boxinngmann in the taxi, pulp 
                                    fictionn that you watched a few
                                    days earlier, like throwingasteam
)or why you listen to nnirvanna.

you were pre-june
before riot insecurity.

you were therrre before anyone had canncer.
you were therrre before i cut my haiir.

oh america,
how is the weather in france?
did you visit the eiffel tower
and get croissant on your lips?
i did not think you’d look
like this. oh la liberté, oh


how that copper must
feel pressed against her. is
freedom ever anything more
than to be free to love her?



oh america, my dear, all
things rust within a year.
i wish they’ll tarnish well
for you. promise you’ll
keep france near.


promise not to be a brut like me.


yours sincerely,


cancer, you littlething,
you are walking the goosestep
on my youth,
and chalking hopscotch on
my little affections

skipskipskipping back a yearandabit
you were so reicht. you collect
on me like a garbage tumour as i
lie in next-door’s skip of discarded bone marrow donors.


you are cruellest,
cancer, taking someone who
did not mean as much to me. such
a little thing

in the air like formality,
no longer leukaemia, muchmuch
crueller, you love to take
love and mutate it into an awkward
doglikepanzer that slathers on
the scrapyard where i
orphaned my onlyplasticsoldier

(you love to take my affection somewhere it isn’t wanted
and make it littler)


there was shakingandcryingandlaughter.
none of it was you, but you marched it all the way
through europe. you god, you bitter prick,
you ulcer.

i am standing on all the chalk in the world
you spoilt aryan child
and, on the blackboard, you will rewrite
every line of history you have smudged



                          i do not give.

                          i do not take away.


i am spurting like a tumour
and life is killing me


Apparently I’ve been doing this for a year, it feels like a long time. Thanks to everyone for the support and sticking around and stuff.


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