Tag: past

purse mince

or, no offense, but i’ll wait until you’re dead

A poem.

it’s the perfect mystery;
better than my father’s legacy
or an Oscar would bring me:
i’ll wait til you’re dead
before you find out what happened to me.

no one is getting younger
while the young are getting stronger.
i look at her ass as i pass at the pool and i wonder,
is that a world we’re birthed to now?
the sky a perfect shade of blue
and here at the gym is where we spend our afternoon;
living longer;
our nutritionists telling us what to consume
like a multi-million-dollar movie star,
all for a gaze to linger afar like another memory
on a shelf of jars, preserved in vinegar.
did Tom Holland look at Zendaya that way
as he strutted passed her in the studio that day?

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wasn’t great

A poem.

my counsellor told me to deal in certainties;
to stop worrying about things outside me;
to find my new identity,
stop living in the past and get with this century.

i don’t like movies anymore.

there was a time that finding
a new Oliver Reed film would excite me,
or rewatching something by Spike Jonze
or Paul Schrader could entice me
to stick my head out of the hole where no one could find me.
when watching Dirty Work for the dozenth time
or any Evil Dead would put me on cloud nine
when all i wanted to do was stop being alive.

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shellfish

A poem.

what do you mean i don’t come on anyone’s authority?
you Sir catechize in impossibilities!
a list of people who know me,
systematically,
who would speak efficaciously
re: me?
preposterousity!
while alternately, you could accept me at the length of my extended goatee.

∼ lengthy exhale ∼
but if we must to win your trust,
then let us descend into the chancery,
unpedantically –

mind the leads,

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