Big Miracles (read as whales)

One day I’ll talk to animals better than you and I’ll wonder why I’m human, what that plan is, if plans exist, and if they did, do, what they look like: maps, lines, family trees, middle school graphs in maths, maps. I already said that.

And the animals won’t talk back or they will but I can’t tell you because when I tell I’m crazy but I’m not crazy, only, connection’s impossible on mobile networks at my parent’s house and in McDonalds and I once saw myself as an extra in a Matt Damon movie and I smiled at the camera like I knew where I was but I don’t think I did because I can’t have. I never even knew I was there. I’m not there.


I Was Dead When I Woke Up This Morning

Play. Don’t do right.

Tactics, rules, retaliate,

deductions and make heard.

Make it heard.


Once, spirit was a thing,

Coco Pop real

and I cherished skin tags

like design label lipstick.


Now, teams are numbers’ games

and I add up better than Duffy,

any of those super-good



Because 5 is better than 4

and 4 is better than 3

and, target, I eliminate you

when you’re 15, 5 or 50.


Mess with me, fuck, I’ll

obliterate you

and discerning language

about you winning. Chance.


You’ll never fucking win this

You’ll never fucking win with me here

and it’s the good of somebody

at the stake. At stake.


The mistake I make

is taking advice

from someone’s authority

and again. I do it.


What I didn’t want:

impressionable knowing

rejection’s a package deal

in this life.


But they know it now.

There’s no saving. Not. Just

retaliational penalties and

“I’m glad you didn’t win.”


I’m glad you didn’t win.

Breaking Up In Season 3

I watch you sink
And a sucking sound
And a plastic bag
With liquid jelly inside.

Visiting hours aren’t enough
And the TV card
Expense, broadsheets
In isolation.

And the magazine says,
“Lose weight in weeks,”
And we laugh.


Tongue Kiss Tom Cruise

Everyone wants to tongue kiss Tom Cruise, even the deniers, or, especially those. I learnt in middle school, don’t protest anything too much – and I’m talking politics, rallies and heckling from girls sure they’ve figured your secret out. But I didn’t fancy Nikki, didn’t want George, or I did but not when they thought it. It’s the blushing, the “No no no,” that gets you found. Instead it’s better to stick with a “maybe,” to stay with a “sure,” to play with a “could be.”

And every hater I’ve met, faced with the chance, would fuck Tom Cruise, French kiss him, if only for the experience of it, to say they touched god with their eyes open and savoured every second although they slipped like new-fangled rollercoaster rides, more concerned with speed, projection, than sway and swing and spin and the string in the pit of stomachs pulled like a puppet by air.

Before The Day Is Done

Sacrifice, I learnt it, right before Communion, other people’s, and I envied white dresses, and bridal doesn’t mean what it means, and I won’t wrap myself up as an offering, and this is me backtracking Hail Mary. This is rewriting prayers. Rewritten regularly anyway, enough, archaic versions stick and I can’t eliminate thou and thee and thine but you’re gone. I close the plane door on it.


The Dentist

I’ve ignored every toothache I’ve had and every boyfriend telling me to find dentists, get doctors, gets told that I’ll fix myself and I carry on fixing, Googling, standing in the Health section in bookshops as long as it takes: until someone tells me to buy it. Never.

Soon, my sister will qualify and every question, lump, scratch, scar, eye flash or floater, will be hers to answer, dissect, know.

I used to wait for saviours, named in songs and words written by men or god-given depending on the historical accuracy of the people teaching or talking or sprawling. Now, I am my own. And when I buckle, when the pain’s a bone burner, I call in contacts of contacts of mine, never select anyone randomly, because that would add weight to serendipity, fatalism, creationism, love.

This won’t be the first time I’ve sipped blood, smelled blood, died.