Amanda F. Palmer and the Art of Being Seen
on thoroughly parsing eye contact
‘i like everything
you are saying
with this look

you are
making me 
nervous’

found on the underground whiteboards, 26th november 2016:
my heart is at ease
knowing that
which was meant for me
will never escape me and
that which escapes me
was ne er meant f or
m

the girl who menstruates flowers drops half-formed petals into the little plastic bin beside the toilet. she excretes wilting chrysanthemum buds today, curling in on themselves before they have a chance to blossom, green on the edges. they shock you more than a bloodied tampon. but this is because you think you already know everything about airbnb hosting. you complain about guests. never cleaning up after themselves. by which you mean. removing all evidence that they ever existed here.

back yourself into that
rock-bottom crevice
so the only way out is
up

stonewall yourself in
with backhanded digs
from people who don’t matter
any more but whose opinions
somehow
still do

and so what if you think /
what you think ?
one can apply wannabe
to any damn sting
isn’t impostor syndrome
a prerequisite
for legitimacy

protect me from what I want
lemon cheesecake in widemouthed glass pots
are staring agape again. how is it we can
intone / atone piously / without debt.
tell me you aren’t / a fucking / beast
when you / use her body / as a pissing ground /
for the marking / of your territory. when urine love.
how is fair fair.
how is the apple of your eye so slanted
and sordid. when did you refuse to take
responsibility for your fecal eruptions, your
gaseous emissions, your cruelty you blame
on someone else. it’s the leo ascendant in her,
my knight of wands says, as if vindictive can be
ever efficiently
explained.

o, protect me from what I want.
three times I went to a crystal storefront
and they’re all out of rose quartz until
you produce a piece from deep inside your
armpit it seems while we are having what
is traditionally poor-people-food. lobster
has grown to monstrous proportions under
the labours of free market forces. will the
teenybops stop yelling about how their
daddy is marx for one second. this is after all
an act of self-loathing. o ye of little faith. my
α tells me he does
not know how to
hit rock bottom
while people are
still around him
he needs to feel
the alone and I, I
concur. back yourself
up and into that
crevice. I once said
instead of hitting
rock bottom I’d
rather get
my bottom hit
but I’d be grateful
for any kind of
non-punitive
revelation
right about
now

new chapbook title: MADE UP SNACK PACKAGING
colour-filled crinkly unnutritious plastic foods. you
lie feet to head in a warm body that can’t / get to bed
otherwise. you / are as tightly wound / as your thoughts /
as your hair. your armpit is a landscape of kinks. you
ever / meet someone who makes you say / fuck butterflies
you give me / whole violins / whole violences / in my chest
cavity? / thought so.

I chopped my babies up
and sold them piece by
piece to people who wouldn’t
love them in their entirety
just so I could capture the
rapture of some reverse-Solomon
who says he’ll take it all
I am grinning in the shower
with all of my
teeth

and maybe I understand you now
a little more when you breathe the
word fantastic when you light the
wax and lie down on a darkened stage
when you perform immaculately
that big sort a andrea gibson love
that damn imperative to write
the mawkish gawk to the lover
you can’t ever unknow

a plump boa constrictor wraps
itself around my neck and
squeezes in an intimate
persuasion in a self-styled
eclectic bar with poets and
non-binary queers murmurs
tasting its own fear do you
like this

your punishment for all eternity
is you will spend fifteen minutes
a day ghosting your hands up and
down the happiest trail and thinking
what would have happened if you
had followed that side-quest
to become a bestselling author
of amazon erotica.

random yelling nigerian makes me
homesick the way laksa does they
both taste of hokkien and being able
to sustain speech above moderate volumes
which is something I have never been
able to achieve

signs you’re an unsavoury include luxury
outlet assistants’ unsubtle attempts
to peer at one’s face / while
unsuccessfully / pretending to fiddle
with overpriced clothing / they
do not know you will look
more like a gorgeous / cunt / in a black tank
sprawled on / your bedroom floor
than in a cop-out burberry blouse /
you tell me why I should / stop yelling
that I feel / unwashed in this
sideeye place / you tell me why
knowing this stranger
bleaches her skin makes me

hurt this hard / stop fucking with
the golden rule of triads / initiate
yourself into the real
secret societies / you tell me
if it means something
that the mirrors in this
place are halfway gold-
tinselled all year round

 

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