Last night I won a prize (a Hugh Grant biography) for performing a poem about moderateclimates, who won a prize for performing a poem about me.
So basically, we won the award for being cute.
Anonymous asked: are you transgender?
I dunno, are you?
I’ve written an article that will be in the O Week edition of Honi Soit. [MUCH GASP VERY WOW] So, yknow, you have the perfect excuse to actually pick one up and read it instead of saying you’re gonna. ;)
Will be slamming it once again tomorrow night (with possibly video footage to arise from that), get keen everyone.
As another long (yet frightfully quick) year concludes, I am once again faced with the inescapable thought of “holy shit, you said you were going to do so much writing this year and you didn’t you piece of shit”.
Hence I have invented a thing—it’s called “WEDID(IT)!”, or “Write Every Day In December (It’s Terrific)!”
Of course, I could just write every day this month without needing to announce it—but then I wouldn’t get to use a fun and apt acronym, plus I think giving something a name makes it more official and thus increases the guilt when you inevitably fail (as I did when I tried to do this last year).
Now, given that it’s the 2nd today because I forgot about it yesterday, I’ve already failed! I will not let that stop me, however, from writing on all the rest of the days of this December. I’m planning on keeping a tally of the number of pieces/word count I write, probably on this blog. Some of the stuff I write may also end up on this blog—other stuff will be on my personal blog, or I’ll put it away to try and get published.
All are welcome to join me in this venture using the tag ‘WEDIDIT’, which is the tag I’ll be using for anything I write. Probably no one will, but I’d love it if you did!
You carve quiets with the bony points of your elbows,
curves like protractor sweeps
Hold them there in the crooks of your arms
cutting holes in mundane spaces to plant your flowers,
your smile breaking slow like dawn horizons.
You tell me you are bitter like the tea you drink
at brittle clumsy 6ams and sleepless midnights
—But the laughter you pour out in the space between us,
flooding the silent shapes your body made
and the echo-empty ones in mine
Is thick with honey warmth.
Honey is the only substance which will never rot
And I feel your laugh like fingers
On my skin for days.
If I were to kiss you
I would feel your lips dry and surprised
and unresponsive against mine, tasting nothing
like the tea you drink on Friday afternoons curled up on your front porch
or Sunday 8ams smiling secret across the table over a cracked cup rim,
See you blink twice too gentle, and
Press my forehead to yours before I could see you shake your head—
As it is I hook my fingers into the crescent moon curve
at the corner of your fringe
Swing myself up on it, higher and higher into the stars
Ask you “Where’s next?”
Doing my second slam of ever tomorrow night, get keeeeeeen.