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You Won't Last Five Minutes Playing This Game

You won’t believe what this desperate college girl will do
for money, you’ll have to watch to find out. Kate’s freshly shorn,
razor-burned but nothing a squirt of self-tanner won’t solve.
Toby’s out of town, she needs to look good in the photos
even though he’s just gonna watch anyway. In push-up polyester
as the Central Line shudders past she says she knows,
she knows, but what’s a girl to do but try?

I’m punch-drunk in Liverpool Street, trying not to think,
circling the city in melted yellow rings as the sugar baby sucks
the businessman’s tufted ear. In your mother’s bathroom
you fish for the Bic and beg me to let you do it.
When you’re done you say get the fuck out of my house.
You won’t believe what this desperate college girl will do
for love, you don’t even have to pay her.


My Depth Perception Is Broken

I know this because the doctor told me so,
when she passed me the plastic binoculars & said,
matter-of-factly, that my depth perception was broken. So
I’m prone in a paper dress, pumping want out at the viscera.

Iron isn’t gold, but who cares? Pass me the luster, 
the hammered brass & the Perspex glitter. Pass me
the lithium & the lucid dream & the radioactive ectoplasm.
I’ll drink the whole damn thing & I swear I won’t complain once.

When vision is lost, the whole world is lost,
or so the blog post goes. But life’s too long. Let’s
call a spade a spade. I want a lobotomy or maybe
a husband with a trust fund or else I’ll row to India

& diffuse the ache in butter —
Watch it refract, watch it blur at the edges.