We have to bomb, you say,
because they throw gay men off buildings.
He was white, and drunk, the man in the bar
who denounced my friends for kissing
and muttered something bitter
as he saw me leave the loo,
and the people most upset by this
were my American friends, reminded
that they could've been fired in Missouri
if their love had been uncovered,
and so moved here, 6000 miles from home,
to live and die free.
The bad guys throw gays off buildings.
You're the good guys: you only
escort us to the door.
Monday, 7 December 2015
All that cliché heartleap stuff:
it happens when I hear you’re coming over,
when my phone vibrates and it’s your face I see,
and I think how banal
that this thing
should be happening
When you let me lay my head on your shoulder
I wanted to take myself outside,
quote my own poems at my puddle-reflection,
put a water pistol in my mouth
and beat myself about the head
with a printed PDF
of The Romance Myth,
saying you are not the kind of girl
who falls for this, remember,
and also I didn’t.
When you kissed me on the lips before you left
I didn’t know where I should put the stress: