Check trash folders I shouldn’t
find cohabitation a nuisance
(even though it’s made me a better person)
roll my eyes when the man in the meditation
podcast tells me to love myself
see insults where there are none
prefer life from the spectator’s stand
come across feelings to which
I can assign no words,
and struggle in that gap.
Feel the sun’s rays on my thigh and
assign to this experience the word ‘pleasure’
find bubbles in my mouth an experience
sit quietly with someone and enjoy having them there
notice I’m too quiet sometimes to be heard
(but think little of it)
notice wayward commas,
fold my sleeves up so I don’t look too much
like a clown at a funeral.
Comb my hair,
rub yesterday from
She says my generation just doesn’t fight enough.
Like their’s did. The Seventies. Oh, the Seventies.
We’ve turned inward, got depressed, sit around doing
She says we’re distracted, unfocused, sad and thinking about fringe things,
Like trans rights. At a time like this.
I say so the democratic principles you fought for are only relevant so long as they apply to your own self-interest.
I call her an entitled boomer.
No she says look at China look at Russia, there are more important things. I say Putin hates trans rights, thinks they symbolise the decadence of the West. Saying stuff like that you’re just playing into his narrative.
She gives me that look I always get “just because you’re good at arguing, doesn’t mean you’re right!”
But I am right. I’m almost always right.
Our generation don’t fight enough, like there’s did. And yet, I’m always the one who’s too combative.
Grounded for defending myself in playground fights boys started.
My brother hit a boy for saying he liked John Major. They overlooked that.
Our generation don’t fight enough. Like there’s did.Turned inwards, stopped caring about the world.
Not true not true not true. BOOMER.
Look at my instagram feed. All this shit about not reading newspapers and making peace with the world. Spiritual mumbo-jumbo about letting go and thinking only good things. “Stop resisting what is” and all that crap.
The bottom line is I love her.
This house is quiet, cool,
but smells faintly of cat piss.
From my window, the sun sinks behind
the factory on the beach.
Here inside, a fan drones overhead.
Here I am.
slapping down hungry mosquitos and
counting dead moths. Trying to write.
I live with a lost girl.
Her apron is green, splattered with paint.
I feed her cats.
Inevitably I abandon her too;
She keeps a crate of my own blood.
Here are ghosts layered on ghosts, layered on ghosts.
I feel like a Colonial vampire:
Feasting on disturbed energies.
And being feasted upon.
You learn a new expression:
Tulle seg bort: to silly oneself away.
She commends your Norwegian.
What do you eat over there?
Shots of your Morfar’s fifty-year-old Scotch.
She thinks you live in America,
you show her Google search results
Of Hong Kong to jog her memory.
Seven million people in one city,
And still space to go hiking?
And what do you eat over there?
So many pink things in this place.
And your finger barely fits through the handle
Does it get lonely? Do they pay you?
Seven million people in one city.
They think you have grown rigid and rude
You rail against the welfare state
Just to antagonise, and you don’t smile.
Seven million people in one city.
But does it get lonely?
When will you be back?
As you leave, you’re handed a
calendar of Norway, replete
With snow-bedecked chalets,
Lush green fjords and gormless
Drizzle and a gentle breeze
can soothe the sting
of thinking about history.
Tents that billow in the wind,
are flaccid now
as storm threats whisper –
Batons dull the reverie.
Would it be like this forever –
would the roads that now sprout flowers
let them grow
–and make this spot
the haven that it ought to be–
a place where disbelief suspended
can genuinely set you free.
Back home you know that everything
that was will still be
a suburban dour reality–
where choice presents itself on slips of paper.
where one man enters
Downing street’s revolving door
one man even greyer than
the one before.
Constant is the only change they say
–or was it said the other way
you can’t remember:
there are too many sayings
to turn to at times like these
and none of them make sense
History is made how?
By whom? where? When? why?
and what do I do about it
and how do I pull myself out of its quagmire when that
oh so hopeful moment passes
and gives way to world weariness
this stupid heart.
International Women's Day
Consent Culture: How to Uphold Physical Autonomy/
Ukrainian women cutting down their nails to better
hold AK47s with.
Bloody from simulating fight scenarios
in a dark room.
Two rats:Yin and yang: curled up in a cage.
Call myself their mother.
Promise to protect them.
Can barely take care of myself.