Dream Inside, Rebecca

I am in your halls of residence, balls of execution,
lots of execution.
I am the chewing gum whose nails scrape along wood,
before thumping on blue jeans and red glitter eyelids.
You will come to me when you are isolated and shut,
lost out in, out on, breathe in these dated pages -
Is she Japanese?
All of my clothes are hanging out for you to paw, nuzzle,
and saliva falls onto silk, walls empty and curved, circles white circles
beautiful empathy and an empty tramp.
Awright darlin' :
he won't eat meat, he only sits there Tuesdays, night time, stroking the night
spreading the cooking oil because butter has run out.
I left the Japanese girl early. She's still there. I keep her. She shouts mute.
I watch her swirls as she stares at my laundry and
together we can while away hours just-
empty bubbles pushing hard against white, white, white is unclean,
so unclean I can feel my bones.
I am in your stadium, afraid of him,
you didn't know about the man, but he knew about you-
oh yes and the tattoo, and another girl with a gun shoots you down.
He's too old, his eyes display no record of an infant- his head is on my knees-
he can't understand washing machines, lip sync, apologies- his head is on the block.
he won't allow, permit, see, feel me or anyone else - his head is in a sports car-
he reaches into the void and nobody notices - his head is in a mausoleum.

Dank

Trail pulpy red digits down the pale plaits of that child
because all she will know is that you cannot possibly be internal-
the infernal racket spewed by my appliances is nothing in comparison
to the screams of the girls in the irony of light pollution, and the dullest of alleys.
They can't hear you, can they? They are buried in chemical,
black dust and pink powder clouding their already obscured pupils
which learn nothing, see nothing, are nothing, will be nothing and I
won't face it without bird beaks and soft tweaks of plump skin
which blushes at your static electricity, and then drowns in purple.
No queen ever wore it. It's a ruse- the regal shade- it's rude, illicit,
only to be found festering in a gutter, in many rings of oily fluid
from exhausted bodies, exhaust pipes, exhausted lives-
and what's more it will only scream uninmaginable, unholy noises
directly into you nostrils so that for a blissful and disgusting minute
you are the dirt. More guiltless than the baby which selfishly sucks at its mother,
rendering the remainder of womankind wild and hysterical in envy
and beyond the boundaries of dignity remains solidly naked for months
end to end, bending toes and at very last toenails which scrape and gag
the placid, lonely placenta. There are no mothers. There are simply wombs.
Submissive and pained, they must shed their load or burst open,
becoming, ultimately, fountains in national parks for passers-by to gaze at in awe:
embodiments of noises, septic tanks and daisy chains.
The moon wanes,
and strangely a pale world seems smaller.

Deskdesk

That last poem was the only one of the 'slightly inebriated' batch that I could bear to post.

These next couple have been written over the course of my first few weeks.. I'd hope in a sense I'm improving via exposure to lots of brilliant poets. The Floetics night was perfect, and I just got an email from a lady confirming that I've got a place on the bill for a different open mic night coming up on the 24th. Maybe.
Sussex is so much better now fresher's week is over! I love living by the woods, there are so many squirrels and bunnies everywhere ^.^

Wide

And once again I have not the slightest idea about what I should tell you
about where I am and who I am and how I've been going.
I have not been well, I've been ill with anger and vitriol
smoking out my intestines and leaving me with long black strings.
I have to tie them together and create beauty and calm
since you deserve nothing less.
Bizarrely I've become less preoccupied with your ever
presence in my poetry.
I am resigned, perhaps. But I don't feel that way.
It is precisely 2:24 and the night invades my nympho skull,
inducing panic and hunger, and your body is limp beside me.
I fed you wine. I fed myself liquor and I am now wide awake,
legs bent beneath my instrument, and I'm wondering,
at what point do I define this?
When it leaks into my soft life?
When it impedes my sleep, or you notice it?
You are certainly lost to the world now, gazing at blank stars
on my white wall.
I want to lean out of the window, walk down,
walk along the gravel path between black houses to the meadow
and lie down on the wet, awkward grass and look up, alone.
Partially because I've been told this is what I should be doing.
A little because I want to feel overwhelmed. I long,
I so wish to feel full and outside of life which is so compelling and so dull.
I know that I can blame nobody but myself for this cage,
and I have no clue why the bird within keeps screeching
that same old ugly song.
I wish it would hurry up and wear out its vocal chords,
and that they would hang down so that I could string them up
and make a violin to pass the time.