global warmingIt gets hotter every year. I remember when weclad ourselves in too many layers and watchedguy fawkes fireworks bloom like rust and mouldand blot out the stars with their rude, incendiaryconstellations, nose-tips numb, woolly hats oncrooked. This time I might wear a t-shirt. It's notquite t-shirt weather but fuck it, you left most ofyours here and I still like to wear them and pretendyour smell hasn't completely washed out. If it rainsI won't care; this time there isn't a rooftop to sit on.This time I won't balance on a chimneypot, feelhigher than god, won't have my own personalviewpoint of the city and the world won't bubblebeneath my feet like a simmering pot of stew,the cars won't grouch and bleat and wail, and Iwon't laugh at them and look at you and everythingwon't be perfect. It gets hotter every year but I'mfreezing; global warming doesn't apply to empty bedsand clean sheets and rain-slick roof tiles withoutbodies to warm them.
corvidaeI was a thief before I became a Magpie, but theystill call me a Songbird, and he says I'm still less thanmy upbringing, but it's all semantics, semantics, yousycophantic bastard, and either way I'm flying.We escaped gravity wells, sticking our middle fingersup at the viziers and all those tall ships emblazoned withthe royal blood red, weaving our way through laserfire asthick as ice storms on the belts of Saturn. Alpha Centauri stares out at us, our faces crushedlike dead legends-- minotaur, Cyclops, gryphon,pinned up on plaques in palaces, glorified roadkillall stinking of formaldehyde and shit.
redefinitionIm sick and tired of living in a world where I have to constantly hold myself up against everybody elses standards. When I walked out of the door this morning the sky hit me like it was falling, chunks of daylight smashing my skull. When I looked down everyone else was staring at their feet. This is trite and overdone, but maybe I want it to be. Everyones jacking off over originality these days, and Im stuck in clichés, and I dont want to care anymore. I dont want to try so hard to please your idea of edgy and with it that Im killing myself over syllables and metaphors, because all I have left is writing, and most of the time thats not good enough.I am made up of labels. Im a fucking post-it note.Bitch. Crackhead. Freak. Writer. Baby. Mother. Dropout. Loser.