Reflections on a Vomiting Girl (#poetry)

The men are like insects
around a corpse,
scrutinous faces
scavenging the remnants
of her,
scavenged.
Her interiors have been forced up
out onto the pavement.

The girl is the city
and the city is the girl;
one direction,
no escapes,
they work themselves out,
unfeeling and senseless
an alienation drink
scarcely serves to soften
and nor the night-out for that matter,
the whole thing hanging awkward in the air
like a badly told joke.

Tonight, I’ve spent it
bouncing off clowns,
communication grinding
with all the intimacy
of two hard,
meshed
gears,
or it would have
had I bothered to speak.
Just lately
my throat has jammed
with a pointlessness
even harder to loosen
than words

*laughing*

come to think of it:
a lot like hers.

My last impression
is of some gay queen.
His face is the devil.
Thick with make-up,
red in the light,
he is filming her with a mobile phone.
Though the queer is only a surface –
reflective, impassive, like a petroleum spill –
I feel my interiors
reflected back at me.
They are what is left of me
creatively
and are something to do with
ideals,
as poison;
pleasures, that are sick
and the disarrangement of dreams.

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