Re·kin·dling (NaPoWriMo #25)

Who highlights hair under house arrest?
Willingly I enchilada owned you
Let each lip buoy like dead fish
Joke-creased shirts
Washed with apple soda
And eyelids were sleep mix
99p for a lb
I sold your parts for immunity
sweet and sour sauce sachet
and cinema tickets
Don’t regret it
It’s pending on create-a-résumé
I won’t know the job loss
no review life when dead
just loops of walk-out films
with Angelina in
before she was famous

love for you

The Curse (NaPoWriMo #9)

You thought escape easy
like the Add button

Put enough make-up on
for photo shoot
changed pajamas

This is your grave face now
not mugshot
crime scene omelette

Your husband
Jamie Oliver
whips with an open finger

Bolt cutters
can openers
Christmas list

Not Quite Yet The Man You Need To Be (NaPoWriMo #2)

In unsafe houses, housing
twenty year friends who’d pierce
protective vests
for you
you tell her love
because vigilante trained
cult recruits
aren’t badly timed
but inconsequentiality,
men-led Bible study
breakfast youth group
at which you learn
wanking’s wrong.

The lesson her husband
teaches you
is commandment
achievement unlocked Xbox
game trade.

Until you scalp him
she’s his.


If god calls, or your mother does, be ready. Actually, you’ll be ready because your beliefs are fated and the voice said early, “This is your craft,” and every youth group ministry meeting you’re interviewed at, you start with, “It picks you,” and “You just know,” and “Calendar plots,” and Sarah says, “Fate,” and you say, “Yes,” and you’re a stage-floor second connection close to a marriage proposal as you’ll get and “Is she young enough” is a consideration, eventual concession, and century old vampires should want for elders not wives, but cliche prevails relationship-wise and 17 is a prime number. A missionary’s mission is never over.

She Knew Where You Were – She Didn’t Care

You sold us all out, thinking you were her rescuer, the only one looking for her. And for these years, 154, you’ve waited, sure she was stuck, and aside from seeing mortals play out succinctly, you’ve meditated only on her release and how you’d orchestrate it.

But she was never in there. And she never once returned to tell you that. She could’ve called, written, texted if she knows how, but maybe she doesn’t. Not all technology’s an easy sell when you’re set on something else entirely.

She could look like Madonna now, and I’m never completely sure how Madonna looks now because she evolves quicker than tap water: some days it tastes like chlorine, others bi-carbonate. There’s salt collecting in your teeth dips.