blue_eyed_monster_corp

or rather is to be written by 20 year olds and read by 37 year olds.

two poems on 3AM Magazine from way back then.

The Monarchs’ Bones.

We who’ve stared at the sun
And mobbed our way through the angry Whitehall streets
We who hold shopping lists close to our hearts
And rub holes in our clothes in nervous anticipation
We who wait in static
We are a stammer
At the edge of a river of rushing steel

She first noticed it as he moved on top of her. A sort of smudge on his right pectoral muscle. Later when he was dozing, and she lay basking in blue light trying to finish her beer without having to sit up, she had a chance to examine it. Upon closer inspection it wasn’t a smudge. Whatever it was it was more like a faded image beneath the skin, wriggling its way to the surface.

In 2016 Diat played at Roskilde, contractually they needed to play for an hour or they wouldn’t get paid, but they didn’t have enough songs, so at one point I just said this for a while.

Do you ever feel like your standing at the edge of something, queasy from the height, some kind of whirling cosmic scab or a a slow motion car crash of crumbling plaster and advancing wrinkles? I often find myself aroused while queuing with my shopping, fruit and veg and cleaning products falling from my arms as I clumsily reach for them, fingers wrapping around their contours like a lover you can never really get a grip on.