Minimum Wage Shifts

When there is rent to pay, distance is irrelvant, and there are bus ticket deals the further you go and if I’d had the choice to turn down 500 minimum wage shifts in shopping centres, don’t you think I would’ve? But standing orders are certainties I don’t think you’ve met yet and, if you had, there’d be a perspective shift and your desperation would be ten-fold. Because ¬£3.53 in your account ’til Tuesday is not the same unless you’re paying the utilities and don’t have enough to buy coffee at work, on your way to work, after work, and you couldn’t even scratch a pasty. So stop say, don’t say. Your privilege is an insanity brew, a generational breed above me, refuted. Your expectation is my bereft.

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.

One Step From Maybe, A Tiny Nudge To Yes

You vowed not to be easy but minds change quickly and swearing something sexually is a bad move. Promise rings are Vaseline-begs and abstinence lectures are dating seminars in which you’re sure to find you someone you’ll like. Sure, they’ll never sleep with you but you can sleep with yourself until somebody does. Until someone wants to.

And each incantation was a basic lie, which meant every word meant less, somehow, until you could say something false, outright, without consequence. It was basically god’s work.

Conversion never worked. Was an awkward blushed-face ready meal which wouldn’t cook despite following the package instructions. No-one flipped simply like sermons suggested. Instead you were a hive-causing itch that everyone wanted to extricate which made it very tricky to get laid.


I will creep age, lines cut in my face.

You, in footage from the fifties, have the same haircut.

I ask what you are, like a one word answer is exonerating.

But science lessons are thermometer stunts, work surface smashes.

You taste like mulberry, silt, leather, and Turkish Delight.