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the milkman left a
smouldering cigarette
on my doorstep.
i pounced in my barefeet
and barelegs, all one word
like that because it's more
abstract that way. it fucks
with your head like a
centipede wearing shoes.
baggy t-shirt, dad's.
stone roses.

i smoked my first cigarette,
triumphant while my brain
sloshed, washing machine skull.
the milkman's spit
tasted of soggy cornflakes
gone sour.
i wondered: if i was to gnaw
on his stubble, would it taste
of powdered milk?
so beautifully bland.
i would blow it from my lips
in mystical rings, tell myself i was
a fairy.
i puked sugar puffs two minutes later.
i was eight.

you know you're a
citybug
when the smog stops
making your head thob.
this is called breathing.
he called me his little girl
while i read ARMANI
printed across my flesh in
red.
traced the welts with
my fingertips,
calligraphy practice.
sometimes he'd let me
wear his baseball cap
and laugh when it slipped
down over my eyes.
it was older than me.
i was eleven.

there was a boy
who looked like him.
he wore make up, but no
one laughed, no one chanted
faggot
faggot
faggot
because he'd fuck them all up.
he drank liquid fire
and it made his eyes
blaze.
this is called being breathless.
we were a pair of citybugs.
cockroaches
wearing blood-red converse high-tops.
i loved him in my fucked up,
dizzy-headed way.
i was fourteen.

train tracks.
heads filled with forest fire,
eyes ablaze.
cannabis had started to grow
in my belly, i was sure of it.
my shit was worth £40.39 an ounce,
isn't it just hysterical?
this is called grandeur.
we danced on horizontal ladders,
wailed at the moon like stoned
werewolves, exhilarated.
dance, dance, dance, dance
with liquid sex dripping from your
fingertips, dribbling from the corners
of your mouth. dance, drink, and laugh
like a loon.

"can you see the decorators?"
"i can see."
"they're our backing dancers."
"pop video?"
"no, fuck that shit.
exclusive show,
fifty people in the crowd, max.
jimi hendrix, lead guitar,
john lennon, vocals,
neal peart smashing the living crap
outta those drums, hear em?"
"fuck, yeah..."
"ever listen to hairspray queen? nirvana?
that's what they're playin',
and you know, you're my queen.
you know it?"

they sounded like mechanical
cows at first.
but they looked like caterpillars,
centipedes (?wearing shoes?)
and my mouth moved in slow
motion.

words
drooled
from
my
lips
like
melted
wax.

but you wouldn't move,
couldn't hear.
they mooed too loud.
in the end
the train driver closed his eyes.

he did it so calmly
i wanted to tear clumps of my hair
out and stuff them down my throat.
this is called taxidermy.

you died mid-dance,
innards somersaulting
again and again.
this is called a large intestine.
the bottle in your hand
shattered shrilly.
it was like the climax
of an opera song, a lone
soprano made of glass.
for a split second
your blood eclipsed the
moon, and i knew:
this is what the poets mean
by tragic beauty.

i was seventeen.

this is called wednesday.