This Beating Shape

One year

encompassed by my heart strung

across Paperchase postcards;

a tangible copy of my soul, now sat waiting

in your College pigeon-hole.


Legs intertwined amongst our make-shift bed of

blankets and last night’s sweat and lust.

With you, lust isn’t temporary, lust is

sick to my stomach, a comforting nervousness.

The way your lips imprint my collar bones,

our hearts stitched as one.


One year of your fingers sewn to fit between

the gaps of mine.

The way your hair shines in the depths of winter,

for you are the sun’s companion in the frost.

365 alterations to my otherwise mundane

days of feeling your breath on the nape of my neck.

Even when your lips are 2 hours away.

For your shadow, your fingertips have formed a

carbon copy on my heart.


You have it always. This organ, this beating shape

under layers of skin, you’ve only strengthened.

I know that’s true. My rib-cage, now painted with

turquoise forcefield.

I’m not afraid anymore.

You’re to thank for that.


No, I’m Gay (A slam poem)

Hi, my name is Lu-
Wait, it’s not like you care.
You’ve already made assumptions based
on my hair,
Both the length on my head
and what’s down there.

For my sex life, my body image
is clearly your business, broadcasted news.
If you can convince me it’s a phase,
for it’s God’s message (well done you.)

Clearly what porn portrays is
a rehearsal for my real past time.
Asking if I scissor is obviously fine.
But you don’t want tips, you’re not that way inclined.
You ask if you can join,
for lesbian means fetish…
So why would I mind?

As if holding my girlfriend’s hand
is some kind of offence
Yet your Porn Hub’s biggest fan,
So it’s doesn’t make sense.

I mean, you’re clearly what I’m after,
what’s missing, the guy I’m really looking for.
A man whose surname I require,
‘Two women only?’ ‘Fancy a threesome?’ Wait,
you’re telling me you’re —”

‘Can I watch?’ ‘So, what is it you do?’ isn’t invasive at all…
I have it easy, ‘boys are dicks’, I’ve heard it all before.

A ‘gay marriage’ is different, exotic, some big day out,
‘I went to a GAY wedding’, your colleague exclaims,
but behind closed doors, nothing’s changed.

Sure, I wear dresses, makeup, no buzz-cut in sight,
for if it’s not penetrative, it’s not real sex, right?
‘Please make me straight’ I’m no church goer, but I pray,
‘I’m not interested’, ‘I’m taken’, ‘I see you as a friend…’

No, I’m…

The Illustrated Man

His canvas is withered; once a gallery display,

Now ‘distasteful’ graffiti on recycled paper.

If auctioned back then, they would’ve been collectible,

Now faded, only fluorescent in sepia



Once young and kicking, but that’s forgotten,

as if his art’s backdrop was always creased mess.

Once complimented, they’re now ignored,

Like taboo patterns on fragile casing.

They’re not dated, out of fashion, archaic,

It’s the exhibition that’s aged, he’s sorry to say.


Long-sleeved shirts are preferable, as if

He’s wounded; an eyesore, black marks smudged

Illegible to the twenty-something critic.

He’s too old for regret in something

once sublime. Now, a stain he can’t fix,

an embarrassment, named ‘tattoo.’


An embarrassment, named ‘tattoo’,

Once sublime, now a stain he can’t fix.

He’s too old for regret in something

illegible to the twenty-something critic.

He’s wounded; an eyesore, black marks smudged.

Long-sleeves are preferable, as if.

It’s the display that’s aged, he’s sorry to say.


They’re not dated, out of fashion, archaic

Like taboo patterns on fragile casing.

Once complimented, they’re now ignored,

As if his art’s backdrop’s was always creased mess.

Once young and kicking, but that’s forgotten.


Photographs, now faded. Only fluorescent in sepia.

If auctioned back then, they would’ve been a masterpiece.

Now ‘distasteful’ graffiti on recycled paper,

His canvas is withered; once a gallery display.











The Scream

A screethe-screamch, a yelp, a cry-for-help,

the sex-less Orient weeps. The wind’s cries

wound the clouds in a child-like scribble. Broken colour

erodes the sky in a volcanic mess.

The red smoke fuelling the creature’s trauma; terror-stricken, a product of time’s inevitable toll.


Or perhaps it’s euphoric, ecstatic, a wail of joy,

an outcast of the field’s decay. The sky eroding in an attack of Crayola,

its cloud’s clashing patchwork now bruised; emotionally tainted by human vandals.


For watchers dissect the image, responsible in decoding a painter’s allusion.

Strangers can’t make sense of the uncomfortable scene.

Why must we untangle, make sense, of a lost cause’s mind?

For God’s sake, let the lone wanderer scream.

A Hypothetical Job

Once again the paper is jammed

tightly strung like my tolerance in

the lift, immersed in a duvet of strangers, a huddle

of workers, where all

we have in common is our

morning Starbucks run.


We don’t take the stairs, we have a reputation to

uphold for why do things ourselves when the

computer pastes it as routine?

Each day indistinguishable,

each day a ready meal, like auto-pilot,

for my mind is now drunk from black clotted coffee

my legs structured by clockwork, reliant on the subway.


Being praised doesn’t exist

when your competition lies on the grey of your suit

being a notable slate or distinct charcoal.

And the man on the morning commute seems vaguely familar;

maybe you saw him take beating for producing too little

maybe he’s a relative whose name you’ve mistaken

for the smile on your face is now guilt.


As your Christmas holiday is taken hostage

by the company of your computer screen

your gift to yourself being new glasses

for your perception has been

altered by the glare of minimum wage.


You’re the girl immersed in the city

colour, from slate grey to

carnival inked maps.

You’re lilac, a colourful orbit, a

translucent, iridescent sun-rise,

Tying me to the shore, like an anchor.

You’re keeping me ship-wrecked,

and captive, safely so.


My heart is meshed, knitted in a

tight, make-shift spider’s web.

Laced in a mesh of passion

and goodbyes.


You’re my lighthouse in the rocky storm.

You’re rainbow infused safety,