those days when you want to write an entire novel on your skin
in felt tip pen, permanent marker,
like it’s not already there
like you’re not just peeling back layers
so people can see the words already written in bone, in fat and sinew
is it just like a courtesy thing?
to pour your wine into a glass when you’re drinking
the whole bottle by yourself?
do you think ‘maybe this is going too far’
when you’re sitting here listening to a mixtape
of songs about suicide
chosen by your favourite alt lit winnahs?
do you think ‘this is just wallowing’
thinking of whales on shores,
curling and uncurling your fingers
do you think ‘this is an endoscopy of sadness’
collecting data to be analysed
and turned into bad art later
and you want to lick
granules of glass off your lips
just to see what it would feel like
in your head, that’s not a violent impulse
it’s more like sugar
not bloody and raw and dribbling down your face
and staring at you in the mirror like
‘what the fuck did you do?’
Icy poles. Zooper Doopers, preferably. Failing that, Frosty Fruits.
Quick, get something else so it doesn’t look as though you’re just going to go home and eat a packet of icy poles by yourself while using vegetables as dildos oh god.
Bananas (goddamn it).
Quick quick quick find the least cock-shaped item in sight quick.
Feet on the gutter.
Kiss on the forehead.
Punch in the gut.
Like an occy strap between your legs.
Pulling you back towards that body.
Man goes green.
Step into road.
Flash of air.
Cyclist careening through a red light.
Take a moment.
Step back forward back forward.
Like a drunk cat.
See the street’s eyes on you.
People cats cars all glowing.
Find car keys.