Diary of an adolescent in love and it's a lot like hell.

1.

We sit on the hood of Tim’s scratchy Mustang
parked by a railway track, beneath a bridge
we talk about dead-weight and dead-dreams and dead-
minds. Pretty little poets who never write
anything down - only sometimes on
underground walls or undersides of arms.

You flip your limb to show me:

“Love is hell”

I nod, ignoring the internal cringe, the cliché, the wasted pain.

Before us, our concrete kingdom stretches out:
endless grey, endless bleak, endless nothing
endlessly endlessly endless

“Quit moaning”

2.

The sky is dark “no one can
see us” a silver streak casts
waxy cobwebs through your
yellow hair.

Hand beneath my jeans
I think how lucky we
are, tied to the ground
unwavering in the
empty night sky.

Footsteps over concrete
a figure in the meek lunar
light, ivory eyes we
can’t escape –

“Fucking Faggots”

We get in the car and
drive away, lighting menthol
cigarettes stolen from
your brother’s car the same
place where
where
where

things happened.

I try not to look too far back, I try not to look too far forward, everything beyond this moment depresses me.

3.

Gloomy eyes gaze over
the parking lot, on top
of the same Mustang throne
passing judgment like the moon

two leopard print ladies
pose and pout, I feel aroused
you don’t notice
two kids poke holes in their arms
two fatsos drink from paper bags
and roll around like Easter eggs

I could ruin it all today.

4.

My tongue scratches over diseased gum
in and out of deep-dark craters

Last night Mum yelled “No money for dentist”
I opened my mouth and she –
vomited out: her larger and chips
and all the orange bits splattered
on the floor. But there really was
no money.

open or closed
open or closed.

5.

Your pretty face traced by
a hue of blue and green
and yellow and red
your lip split in two
your papery hands
tremble over grazed knees
there are holes in your shoes
holes in your cheek

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry

I dart my eyes away from you

Two whores now one
the pretty one is gone
the men are asleep
the kids are
far

There’s silence until –
a train roars past on a neighbouring track
and another and another and another

You ask me when I’m going to leave, my tongue clicks against my teeth, my shoulders shrug, my feet bang together, I dare myself to look into your eyes.

“What if I told you I wasn’t going anywhere?”

Sirens screech and shadows dance across the lot with every beating train

“I wouldn’t believe you”

You lie down on the hood and
I follow suit.

With our eyes turned in we dream
of that same place away from
here, further than that lump of
rock – companionless and bald

A place where the redemptive
power of love is still
possible

is still possible
is still possible.