car seats,
sun on my feet,
blue scarf across
my shoulders.
freshly-washed hair
exploding into
ringlets.
my dog is in the
driver's seat.
i read stories to myself.
who could possibly tell
that math is on monday?
ah, but math
a truly logical subject.
((the only logical one))
but i suppose that
is counteracted by
((the nonsensicality of))
english extension
on friday.
damn you crime fiction,
to think you are
an entire
genre. just;
damn you
i think i can
survive
on my own.
is this naive?
it is, isn't it?
is it only so,
because i am seventeen?
if i were twentyeight
i could take myself
more seriously.
"youth is wasted on the young"
dread. amplifying
with every day
that passes.
tried to write
a sestina
this morning.
page; blank.
have decided to
attempt a villanelle
in the near future.
do not go gentle into that good night
rage, rage against the dying of the light
it's warm and
chilly
all at once
passed a car
driving in the
wrong direction.
down a one-way
street. i wonder
what happened to
it?
i have decided
to buy
lots and lots
of art.
i want to hang
a giant black&white
photo//print
in my room.
but i have to
find one
first
my dad was wearing
a new pair of thongs
yesterday.
((i say new; but they were obviously old))
they were a deep burgandy
with a 'chinese' brocade
in gold. on the sides
of each sole there is
something scrawled,
in white-out.
on the left;
COLOUR TV $50.00
on the right;
pH. 0415 648 434
i said
oh, they're art.
& he said
but they're so soft. try them on.
i tried them on.
he was lying
of course.
they're not soft, that's just sweat
i said.
it's saturday.
i just bought
iced coffee
with skim milk.
but asked for
cream on top.
((i'm female; it makes sense.))
i have not found
any good postcards
for a few weeks.
that should make me
feel sad. but there
are biggersadder
things than that.
i'd count those
things, but
i'd rather not.