luv poem

We’re in love like two burning rizlas

flutter together until they don’t :

one lands, melts a small plastic lump on the carpet

the other flies behind the sofa never to be seen again

Maybe to move to Berlin 

maybe to marry some hunk, a collagier who speaks perfect English

Maybe you go to be with that rapper or that model or poet and they’ll write poems better than this 

or stick it in your butt and rap about it

Maybe I’d do that too

Someone scouted me to model once, for a rankin photo shoot 

but I’m p sure I pulled one of those faces in the pic that u hate

Maybe the one that burns the rug gets stuck there

until new tenants pull the carpet up and you are resigned to the trash heap

I talk a cowboy talk but mostly I’m just drinking cola and smoking cigarettes over a blank screen

Even tho I don’t have to write a poem to fuck you, I’m sure you’d like one

the holiday

went to see the pixies with your friends, went to the museumplein and the vondelpark, went to smoke some bud went to eat some coffee and drink a pizza. did not go to the red light district, did not go to the sexmuseum and did not do magic mushrooms and go to the amsterdam dungeon like you planned, didn’t smoke enoughweed, didnt eat enoughspacecakes and maybe you should have bought that peyote cactus from the flowermarkt. get back home after the pixies, go to a coffeeshop, shoulda smoked a vaporizer, shoulda smoked a bong - you’re too exhausted to ask so you roll long spliffs and before soon we have to head back to the hostel. sit in bed, everyone else falls asleep. get paranoid about grinder, it has sentimental value but you need to smuggle it back. get paranoid about not brushing out every last grain of keif. maybe you did you eat enough spacecakes. roll a keef spliff and leave the hostel past some miserable dutch receptionist and into the street, pace anxiously until you are far down it. it is empty until it is not. there is a man on a bench and somewhere further down there’s a club. the word church is emblazoned above it in neon letters. see it is a leather bar. see that it is a sunday. see there are men eyeing you up and head back, nervous. last time you came you didn’t wank for three days because you were sharing a room with your friend and you can’t do it in the shower - you considered going to a gay cinema. you two saw a peep show together but it was weird and the lady rotating in the circle was more interested in amy anyway. think about going to church. think about sacking that off and going down a few streets to the cinema. realise you have none of your stuff and chicken out. head back into your hostel, your room, your bed : the top bunk. you are sharing with a guy you barely know, you find out that he screams in his sleep. smile knowing you know something that intimate about someone you barely know. he rolls around the bed, and you are gently rocked to sleep, smiling. somehow wake up on the tram in the morning, need to catch your ride home. cross the tracks and scream as old ladies ring their bell at you and curse tourists like you would if you were back in london. you feel a quick pang of empathy for a tourist you tutted and loudly rolled your eyes at as you walked thru his family photo on london bridge but then it is gone. you get to the coach station. you remember the grinder, and think about whether you did a good enough job. get to passport control and ace it. suddenly you are flying on a coach going 100km/h over european motorways, heading past brussels and through to ghent then heading back because you forgot forty tourists. get to calais, get to passport control, get paranoid, get to passport control again this time an english officer. get anxious. ‘what was your purpose in amsterdam…’ you don’t know for a second and then blurt it out - a holiday. you feel like you are lying but you are not, these people always make you feel like you are lying, at least they are not american or you are sure you would crack. he lets you through and you get back on the bus panting, worry if dogs sniffed your belongings - you are gently folded in half and slip into nightfall,
load you on the train and post you overseas.

crush on u

i’ve got a crush on you which is better for me anyway, a crush will just stay that way -crushing you 

you are crushing me with your pubey beard and sometimes you wear these glasses

i dunno maybe it’s because you can speak a whole bunch of different languages 

anyway i’m sat over here on the plush sofas with the wobbly table

you where you always sit with a bunch of viking women by the window

and you are cruising me and i am staring at you when i am not highlighting eisenstein

reaching over with your protoplasmic limb and crushing me when i am not looking - god

you are so cute. i wanna wear your jacket. i wanna eat your hair. okay maybe not.

there was a party at yours once and i noticed, not that i’m being weird, 

but you took too much k and got taken away somewhere, anyway i looked in your room and we have the same speakers! i was on k too and i said that to ur friend maybe he told you. and he looked at me like i was a total goon man! and that crushed me

but man the sexual tension is killing me over here -

you over there looking but not looking but looking damn good

me over here wobbling trying to highlight and fake reading but actually listening to drake and watching you

i like to listen to drake and watch porn on mute and this feels similar

i loved sitting next to you in class that time, or when i stretched and my shirt lifted - i saw u lookin man

then we talked a bunch and i added you on facebook when i was drunk, you said happy bday too and that was nice, but you are crushing me damnit or maybe im the one doing the crushing putting the whole thing on you. and i’m actually sat there red eyes sighing every five minutes being distracting and maybe you might be straight!? 

well, i’ll probably never see you again unless i do, so until then i’m gonna let whatever is crushing whoever keep on crushing until i am smushed or exhausted or bored