my beautiful typewriter 

Mexico

He took me to see the plane.
Crashed nose-heavy into the sand,
rusting.

We stood on the wings where the heat hissed and
bit at our toes, the metal blinking astonishment in the savage
white of the sun.

It was no longer filled with cocaine,
so we crawled in the windows and slept an afternoon sleep
in the cool saltiness of the sand.

Pancakes

We ate pancakes at 4am, tongues thick with syrup
and coffee, thick with excuses
not to sleep.

The nights weighed out long
and strange in the fleshy neon streets.
If we slept we would miss the world, the pavements would wear down and eyes would glitter without seeing pillows.
There would be wine without us.

The earth was not sleeping.
So we drank on, eyes hot like infected wounds
and waited for morning to start
for bed.

Waiting for Summer

We are waiting for summer.
The old man who lives above me said today,
“It’s still cold.”
This resentful truth, this
much is true.

The old are peeved at the seasons.
You cannot have a funeral
when it is windy.
Gusts mock the looming weightiness of the world
clothes dance merrily, trees bop.

We should die in the snow
in the clean and sombre white
or hope for cremation
instead.

The Happy Feminist

And if it all goes well
we can hope to earn thousands more each year
grinning equally at our desks,
heads burst through shattered ceilings
clutching solid pension plans.

This, my friend, is The Dream.