lines and lines and lines

Words, October 07 -

Nick Cave.

I know you live nearby- Sited in Snooper's Paradise Swinging in a black leather trench Clenching the reluctant fist Of your son. He doesn't care how dark you are Or the way You spat out

At first, they hated Gerald Crich.

Written after reading 'Women In Love', as an excuse not to write a thesis chapter on it.

Babushka

She bought us one each And I placed mine Next to a ball light From Habitat I broke three of these lights They were poorly manufactured. When did I learn To say such things?
Cherry

Crackling

He liked to crunch The hairy bit The chewy fat A habit That made her gag. For her, it was indicative Of a lasciviousness The grease would speckle His lips and remind her

Living Dead

It is not difficult to think of a list of spooky songs: 'Thriller' the Bollywood version of 'Thriller', 'Monster Mash', I will go on and on. My brain is made to spew trivia.
Cherry

This is Saturday

She says: 'I am as brittle As dog biscuits and my teeth Are as dusty'. Frets She will flake out On the sheets stained Clover green. I am not afraid. I love this girl to my bones,
Cherry

River

Two bottles of rioja Are unleashed - 'My teeth were made for this', Grinning like a Greek. This midnight sneak To the river Is a way to jolt me Aloft. Riposting, I show My sad tits

Folk

Pressed against a skip Outside the pub we will never enter You tell me that I should listen To more hardcore. Bands with names like The Bonecrushers, Blood-Maimed, Death Nazi.
Cherry

Hangover

I want to call everyone I've ever loved And tell them: Our time together Gave me joy so searing That now, when Sunday Is muffled and smells Like sweating bacon The thought of you tweaking

Tea.

Show me pictures Of all your relatives Especially the ugly ones. I will admire the juxtaposition Of your stout auntie With the chubby milk churn. Later, tracing a teardrop of excema

Only fruit.

I was mean all week Through lack of sleep And Ribena still on my lips And the pill I took Which made me cold sweat In the Thai You thought it was the pan naeng. To escape the bile

Volume.

Windows can't stop your Generic volume, The message says. I knew it! So voluminous am I, So homogenous and voluminous. Today, I billowed clear Across campus, filling
Cherry

Skins

We grease in bed for hours- 11 episodes of Skins Punctuated by flicking crumbs Off my pigeon chest. At 12.12, We try out our worst insults: 'You are not even an echo
Cherry

Nap

I can't help it - Monday has pissed in my tea All my karmic knots Are wriggling loose And this sense Of inevitable aging That just won't stop. A line graph With time on the y,

Oxfam

We are in Oxfam - The book one - And she is stealing minutes Away from the tagine Which should be softening So that my friends Can add to the list of things They know about me: Great cook.
Cherry

Renew

I have had this book out Four times now- 'Autobiographics' By Leigh Gilmore How we can theorise Our life stories. Gilmore eschews Familiar generic questions Apparently. I eschew the theory

The Dirty Book.

The dirty book Smiles at us for days From the top shelf. We have to climb to get it. I am volunteered On account of my supreme agility. It is called The Joy of Sex. It features a man