This poem should probably be titled 
You Don’t Have Her Number 
For A Reason 

This poem should probably be titled 
Things You Shouldn’ Do 
At A Club To A Female Stranger 
When She Limin’ Wit’ Her Sistrens 

This poem should probably be titled 
Zelda Got Her Own Fuckin’ Master Sword 
So All You Ganondorf-Ass Punk Boys 
Better Step Da Fuck Back

This poem should probably be titled 
I’m Pretty Sure 
Leave Me Alone Please Isn’t Your Name 
Which Means She Doesn’t Know You 

This poem should probably be titled 
Showing Signs Of Great Fear 
Means No 

This poem should probably be subtitled 
She Knows She’s Fit, 
She Ain’t No Dummy, 
She Doesn’t Need Your Boist’rous Ass Remindin’ Her 

This poem should probably be subtitled 
That Which We Call A Rose 
By Any Other Name 
Still Has Switchblade Thorns and 
The Scent Of OC Spray 
So People Won’t Pick Her Out Of The Ground 

This poem should probably be subtitled 
And No, 
Stop Saying ‘She’s Someone’s Daughter’, 
Because Her Humanity Isn’t Something 
Solely Confined To Having Been A Father’s Child 

This poem should probably be subtitled 
She Doesn’t Need Me 
To Write This Poem For Her

But then again 
I was never that good at writing poems 

so here goes, 

the poem reads thusly: 

Dude. 
Dude, 
what the fuck 
are you doi- 
stop, man. 
Really, 
fuckin’ stop. 
I said stop, man, 
I shouldn’t even have 
to fucking tell you.
Stop.

I have no interest in being 
put on the map. 

I can’t eat an atlas; 

I don’t want more 
white men in their 
adorned white uniforms 
dazzling with medals
and gold braid and knife-steel 
showing up on my shores 

literally trading my house 
for their songs, 

buying my children 
with jewelry-boxes 
and my parents 
with curtain-beads; 

I don’t want 
pale-skinned demons 
spitting on elders’ graves and 
pouring their liquor on indigenes’ shrines, 

they can keep their books 
and their foreign whispers 
if it comes at the cost of 
colour on a page; 

I can’t eat an atlas, 

and I want these monsters 
off of my beaches 
and out of my schools, 

I want these monsters 
to take their hands off my lovers 
and put the bricks of my houses 
back where they found them, 

I’d rather have a land 
than a cartographer 

so I’ll do whatever I can 
for my nation to 
fade into the steam of the 
boiling water above Durga’s kettle-hot rage, 
like fog of war, 

so these demons 
can get lost, 
lose hope and drown,

and leave our paradises alone.

it takes a lot of dedication 
to start spinning a story 
that you never want to let go, 

to never find full stops 
because you only find them in gravestone grey, 

to keep piling on commas 
til commas are rare 

and golden and lily-scented and 
taste like forbidden love’s lips, 

to love your story now, 
to feel like it’s true, to want it to be true 
because if it’s true, you are 
alive at least in this 
really long Act Two 

brimming with conflict. 

you have become the lady of so much, 
of the whodunnit and 
the haunting. No 
sovereign deserves you, 

and it’s that you’ve scored a sovereign 
that we are so enamoured of you 
silvern tongue.

When I was in high school, 
the boy who would look 
out the Literature class window at 
The Girl - class mumbling words of 
Beatrice and Benedick as 
I’m writing poetry under my desk - 
when I was in high-school 

I wanted the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ 
‘Concentrate’ to be my 
wedding song. 

I didn’t expect much people to get it, 
I just wanted to hear it played live 
and see that she’d hear the chorus 
and maybe tap her toes to it 
or lift up her dress and two-step awkwardly 
in ways that other married women would balk at. 

That was before - 
hustle, bustle, and 
so much muscle; our 
cells about to separate; now 
I find it hard to concentrate - 

That was before 
I realized how 
fragile thoughts were, 
some dust-brittle and 
others glass-brittle and 
all of them sharp because

the fragment of a thought 
has to be sharp enough to take shape inside the soil soul; 

I remembered the trees and stone benches 
and the walk from there to your house, the path 
that we built our little Verona in 
in all the sauciest ways we could fathom - 

our
hearts about to palpitate, and 
I’m not about to hesitate 

but it wasn’t my call, 
I guess - for all the shouting 
under the low-clipped moon 
it was still easy for you to 
close the balcony door 

and say I never gazed 
at the sun of you. 

It was easy for you to 
make up Rosalines 
(and frankly, if 
I was on my way to a Rosaline, any Rosaline, 
and someone had warned me about this shit 
I would have run to her instead, I’m sure), 

and I guess a part of 
me feels like my dreams 
and one of my favourite songs 
has been cut up slowly 

and left to blow away 
without warning me first 
and I guess that 
frustrates me, 

how I stapled your face to 
memories I hadn’t made 
and dreams I wanted to realize 
and now I can’t look at them any more 

because your face morphed into 
something that easily frightens, 
saddens, angers me, 

so when the door finally closed, 
I found myself morphing too, 
in shadows where no one 
sees what I burn or cut, 
whispering little wishes to my favourite demons, 

all i want is for you to be ruined; i 
just don’t want to touch you just to do it, ‘cause
finally you have lost something perfect, and
finally you have lost… 

we plant gardens in the desert;
we make deserts of the rainforests.

we split Eden into 
house slaves, 
yard slaves, 
meat and 
the enemy; 
we laugh at Adam 
for picking fruit; 
we laugh at ourselves 
for laughing at fruit; 
we never leave 
the plantation house.

we make a threat of love 
and embrace lovely abuses.

we fear the warmth of others 
and encourage the coldness of the self.

we want to be at peace 
so we make loud noises 
in every direction 
til we get there. 

Mother Earth 
can’t pick a side between 
sick amusement 
and terrible anxiety.

what we have here 
is just a little glass of water 
for the journey ahead; 

don’t make the mistake 
of thinking my love for you 
can be contained in canteens 
for your future satisfaction. 

i’m in the business of 
dancing with any lovely rose 
whose card is empty 
and hands are excited 
and who wishes for more out of their 
low-hanging-moonlight nights 

than one glass of wine 
and fear;

we play Jennifer 
Paige’s ‘Crush’ at the 
top of every hour 
just so you can remember 

what this transaction is - 
the chance for you to 
find some living water 
pouring out of a lovely wineskin 

and not feel like you 
need to be bonded to it 
to enjoy the sting and sweetness it gives.

it’s my favourite colour, 
you know,

and yours, too.

it’s why i chose it 
for the sheer cloths around the bed, 

and the walls, 
and the letters
of the Do Not Disturb sign upon the doorknob - 

so every time you hold on to something, 
the pillows or the curtains, 
the headboard or the desk, 

you are reminded 
of the name of the 
nagging hunger that drew you here:

lust.

we are night porters 
of the hotels that are 
alleys and lamp posts and 
other people’s bedframes; 

we are merchants 
of flesh, 
peddlers of sweet skin 
and refreshing milk; 

we are dowsing rods 
for body wells, 
keys for 
gates to Heaven; 

we can be brown sugar 
or licorice, 
warmth, or pain, 
whatever thing you want,

just so long as 
you bare all of you, fearlessly, 
for our opportunity, 
so we can be your delights.

1.
this is character-driven. 
this is 
churning bedsheets 
thinking 
‘if only i stayed in pain 
because at least then i had a sliver of pain 
that’s all mine 
no one can take this pain from me’
this is not remembering 
that you don’t need people to be happy
sometimes you need to be grounded 
sometimes you just want to 
want something and
be wanted and
know it’s yours 
however that works
you know?
this is thinking 
‘god that’s horseshit 
but god
do i feel like crap already’
this is being hesitant 
to take off your headphones 
because you don’t actually 
have the attention 
of anyone trying to get yours
this is lying and saying 
you aren’t lying 
because they always ask 
this is lying and saying
you’re not at all tired 
because they always ask 
this is 
the sick, the sorrowful, and the dying
this is 
the thick, the horrible, and the lying
this is 
the tired, the incorrigible, and the crying 
this is 
five p.m. doesn’t feel the same 
and you don’t want to tell people who would say 
‘you know this is for the best, 
right?’ 
this is 
not being able to say the names of loved ones out loud 
lest they know they’re loved 
this is 
love letters make me vomit now 
so i don’t know how to tell people i find them valuable 
so i don’t know how to tell myself i am valuable 
this is how badly it makes me tremble 
to say i want something 
knowing that isn’t how it works 
and how badly my bone marrow shrieks 
when people say people deserve happiness 
this is 
everybody wants somebody 
who doesn’t want them 
who wants somebody else, baby
(we went over this horseshit already)

this is 
‘what is love?’
hurts already

this is 
dancing and 
leading with my fists

2. 
this is plot-driven.
this is getting up at six a.m. 
and writing 
with your phone in airplane mode 
because enough is enough 
there isn’t enough caffeine 
this is saying sometimes 
that alone is a silent space 
and you want to be forever alone 
this is saying sometimes 
that if no one wants to go out 
then you’ll dance by yourself 
so you don’t have to impress anyone 
this is 
fuck romance movies 
this is replacing all your friends’ romance movies 
with We Need To Talk About Kevin 
and asking to come over 
this is being told you’re cute 
and shrugging 
this is being told ‘why are you even single?’
and shouting 
‘that is so not how that question works’
this is being told ‘why are you even single?’
and reminding them that 
they’re the answer 
this is keeping your Desert Island Discs on hand 
because every random walk 
every taxi ride 
every stood-up friendly gathering 
could leave you a shipwreck 
but at least there’s Kingdom Come 
(life is just a dream
and we don’t want to wake up
wake up)
and Electronic Earth
(i predict an earthquake 
up in here) 
this is 
leaving your headphones on
and seeing who would try 
to keep your attention 
this is 
maybe i’m pretty for once 
this is 
i’m not going to wait for anyone to have to say it 
this is 
‘not right now, 
i’m cooking’
and cooking for sixteen hours 
this is 
‘sorry, 
MacGyver is on’
and marathonning it
this is 
‘i just can’t’
and just not
this is 
sometimes you want to 
but you guess maybe 
if someone woke up with you 
shifting slowly into mind’s-eye view
they’d do that shit 
but you just can’t 
so just don’t
this is 
‘if i deserve to be happy 
i should do something about 
being hungry and starving 
so allow me to meditate for a bit’
this is a gentle reminder 
of how worthy i am

this is 
dancing 
and leading with my fists.

‘do you have the time?’

is by far 
one of the dumbest 
questions i have ever heard

if i had the time at all 
i wouldn’t have chosen 
to walk down the street at this hour 

if i had the time at all 
i wouldn’t have chosen 
to be so late with my life 

if i had the time at all 
i would have stayed where i came from 

and then 
stayed where i came from before then 

if i had the time at all 
i’d know a lot more 
and be happier too

if i had the time at all 
i wouldn’t have been so laissez-faire 
about all the things that give me peace 

it’s precisely because 
i cannot possess time 
that i am in this mortal mess.

i have to take all the lights 
off just so i don’t see some 
visage, some apparition 
of people behind my eyelids, 
people i want to belong to, 
people i love, people i wish 
to destroy bare-handed 
(sometimes they’re all 
alike, down to the marrow). 
sometimes for some reason 
there will be some flickering 
through the corner of my laptop, always 
green, always 
green, 
(that means something, 
something forward-moving 
and never stopping, 
or something greedy, 
or something growing, 
or something Fitzgerald-esque) 
and nothing i can do 
will bring the sandman through my window 
so i think back at all 
the times people have said 
‘you deserve to be happy’ 
and whisper a short curse 
for each voice i hear repeat it 
because wanting warmth 
to be a universal constant 
is not the same as a blanket 
and if you don’t have one to spare 
really, leave it all well alone 
got me up all night 
all i’m singin’ is love songs
i’ll need these lights when the sun comes up 
but as long as all there will be 
are these far away stars 
and the smog of other young men’s dreams 
i don’t need any candles 
i don’t need any 
wakes or awakenings 
i just need coffin-sleep 
would you believe me if i said i’m in-
bed is whispering to me 
that my sweat is comforting to it 
in ways my voice can never be to anything else 
so i’ll love what loves me 
and punch light in its eye 
and take silent notes with my REM-sleep eyes 
of all the reasons why i should 
stay away from things that entice me 
because eventually 
i make something tragic happen. 
i keep asking people to give me 
things that will help me fall asleep,
arrows, enough melatonin 
to make stars fall, alcohol, 
eclipses, power outages, 
and they keep telling me 
that it’s unhealthy 
so i guess 
the healthy thing to do is 
to daydream about her 
and them and whatever else
and you 
at ungodly hours like this.

Tonight is the night 

I put my box of trinkets 
in Raum’s fire-beak 

(and Raum will get 
his dues in time); 

tonight is the night 
I read an invocation 
for the Count 

that will shake his antlers 
so secret things, arcane things, dangling from them 
will make a little song 

to draw dryads near 
to ask if he’s of them; 

tonight is the night 
I beg for these things 
to glitter and instruct, 
to glisten like hope itself 
and smell of a vineyard 
and be sweet 
to the tongue and to the touch, 
to drive lost travelers mad to find the source 
and walk for miles to me; 

tonight is the night 
the Count 
gives the wide eyes of lovers 
to me - 

good Furfur, 
do not let me down, 
you scoundrel, 

do not let my trinkets down, 
do not let it be that 
I burned my fears 
just to hear you grunt and growl 
and see the smoke of it in your almond eyes; 

I could have called on 
whatever leads the hordes of rage 

but instead I called on 
a quiver in the arrow of mad lusts 

so let me play the single string 
and see you fly into 
the soft flank of something beautiful 

so it will want 
to make me its own 

like nothing else does, 
for nothing else does - 

let me beg for once 
that there will be no storms 
except the storm of bodies, 

that you will bring only 
the awkward hurricanes 
of cold shoulders 
meeting fiery eyes, 
of chilled spines 
against warm embraces, 

sending lonely rooms spinning 
in dances for which 

only your sacrifice 
could play the song.

I whisper gentle fiats, 
one in every corner of my bedroom, 
one where old love poems lay, 
another where a lizard slept 
until death made a net of his skin, 
another as far behind 
my closet as my tongue could reach 
without drinking dust, 
and another by the door, 
flying under wood and hinge:

this is where I make.
I will make whatever I can.
I will birth lovely or ugly things, 
however many children I need 
to love me back, 
and I will never leave here 
til a land passes out from within me, 
populated with people who want to hear me talk 
and want to put their hand on my cheek 
and want to put their hand through my hair 
and want to put their hands in their pockets 
as slowly I turn their land between my fingers, 
trying to make things 
that make the 
things I make 
happy. 
this is where I make 
myself happy. 

happy is a hard thing to make. 

for the most part, 
it is ex nihilo
and I hate that.