the bus poem – part seven; welcome home

I loved you

as we sailed down the road

where you perpetually piss me off

for days after days

after months after years

in small destructively devastating ways.

The same route where I miss my stop,

because the world that I had tied up in a knot

was planted in your heart like a seed

when you decided to rip out its roots

and shove the brambles down my throat.

Bristles scratching as I swallow.

Blood nestling in flesh hollow.

You sang it to sleep in my stomach,

with tides hiding behind my eyes.

I ask for forgiveness,

you say

I shouldn’t be angry.

My friends say

I let you walk all over me.

You never liked them,

and they knew that.

So, when it ended,

they were glad.

But I’d still let you stamp me to the ground;

when I hear that bone crunching sound,

I know how it feels

to be relevant to your life again.

Use me like a doormat.

I don’t care.

I’d love the chance to welcome you home.

Stamped into the floor by your front door;

I’d kiss you from under your feet.

And if you brought a girl home,

I’d stay quiet

and just take notes.

I’d settle for that.

Because inevitably,

when she’s gone,

and I’m back,

I’ll be all shiny.

New and improved.

A compilation of ex lovers in the body of your best friend

with a fully charged battery pack,

and all the strings attached.


the bus poem – part six; all of this

I love you.

I’m past our town now.

Headed to where we used to go to college.

Where you still go to college,

working whatever magic I know you’re capable of.

I wish I was there

to see more of it.

I wish you cared enough

to show me more of it.

I wish I was enough

to not be broken by all of this.

the bus poem – part five; rum without the coke

I love you.

It hurts

to drive past Neptune’s bridge,

where i know you live,

and to just

C a r r y  o n.

We were always just

Carrying on.

I hope that

we won’t have to do that for too long.

I hope that one day

we can go somewhere together.


A place where I wear my hair loose,

and let it dry on its own,

coconut tangles, uncontrollable vines,

the damp ends tickle your spine

as you sit cross legged below uranus,

I come and I plant myself behind you,

my legs wrap around your waist,

slim and soft, a gift from the Gods,

as I sigh stars into your neck,

arms draped like mountain climbers

victorious on top of your shoulders,

and everything looks silver.

I’d love to be somewhere like that.


And when it doesn’t fall right,

when my hair gets stuck on your lip,

when your spine is snapped from the drop,

and your waist is painted in a blackish-purplish-blue hue,

Neither of us will mind.

Because there’s no one else around to see

you with me,

lying on cold sand,

indents and lines,

dents and dives,

skin brushing skin,

hands intertwined and tied by slow whispers of unsteady kisses

and nothing but hot breath in between.


Look at you.

You’re all caught up

in thoughts that aren’t yours,

spinning saturn’s ring between your fingers

and waiting for her to call you home.

Maybe later we could ask all of our friends

to start a fire,

more wild than jupiter,

but with a tongue less adventurous than yours.

And maybe

that would help us

to burn all the sadness out of our brains,

with flames that burn the backs of our throats

And tastes like rum without the coke.


I’ll write poems and dance naked under mars.

You can do whatever the fuck you want,

so long as you watch first

and join in later.

Your lines would be twisting,

lighted at twilight,

limbs draped across your torso,

hanging heavy,

weighted with the lead in your chest,

a golden glow as natural as Earth.

and then, once I realise that you look like a fool,

I’ll push you into the lake

and jump in after.


With Venus watching

we smoke while we swim.

And swim

and swim

until we find a new place to begin.

I can’t think of a better place to begin.

I get a slap of stitches.

A fist of needles.

Whenever I think of you walking me home

all the way to mercury and back.

I don’t know if we can do this.

But, if we do,

I know it’ll be the hardest thing we’ve done yet.

the bus poem; part three – the slowest slow

I have a complex

where I want to be the best

at everything I do.

And you were

the best

at anything I ever cared about.

So, I need you to teach me,

I’m sure you already know

that I’m a slow learner.

So, get ready,

you might need to put aside the rest of your life,

or at the very least,

make a little space for mine;

when it comes to leaving you,

I’m the slowest slow to be left behind.

the bus poem; part one – some sort of metaphor

It’s hard to leave,

but it’s no harder

than the stone

in my throat

that I submissively swallow

every time

I hear your name.

It sails

and sinks

to the pit

of my salt marsh stomach.

And I let it lie there,

waiting for its roll call.

Because I’d rather be choked daily,

than watch the last remaining essence of you

escape from my lips.

The same ones that would harbour your kiss

for hours

when you hid me in your bedroom,

and your parents never knew.

That’s all i want from you.

To be kept.

in your mind,

in your words,

in your arms.

Don’t forget how much you loved me.

Don’t forget how to love me.

Don’t forget how to remember how much you loved me.

And don’t forget how to remember how to love me.

We were always better than the rest.