Coordinates

I remember the first time I traced your spine that felt like velvet. Memorised the coordinates of your collarbones with my nervous lip. I remember the laughter, the sweat, that unfamiliar. The glow of your skin, lighting my way home. Your eyes lit up like sparlers in November twilight, and guided me in line with… Continue reading Coordinates

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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… Continue reading This Beating Shape

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… Continue reading No, I’m Gay (A slam poem)

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 photographs.   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… Continue reading The Illustrated Man

The Scream

A screech, 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… Continue reading The 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… Continue reading A Hypothetical Job