egg

café was egg. rooms burst
in sight when asked for toilet
not bathroom. puppy spins
in middle of road, clearly lost
a long time. the ladies’.
mirrors on wall like space
completely different. she found
egg among expensive, pretty
homes. woman doing bio
chem; higgledy piggledy
lounge. tiny tomatoes swell
tight, matching bacon, button
mushrooms. tea: hot, sweet, traditional.
entire space a kind of accidental
art. black incomplete maps behind
cha’s hand. path creates breakups – let’s walk
backwards. worried about condoms. bridget
jones’s diary. and then to her shock
did a shit suddenly, in the middle. could
have broken? cappuccino frothed
in eggshaped cups. thought u knew
y

62

When it was really time for the baby

gangsters to eat their gruel, panicked hearts

bump bump bump in little tin cups;

my teacher took a text out his pants, liquid

shit dripped from a quivered arsehole…

can anyone name all the states? he roars, face a fire.

They sigh, eyes trickle in a pool, ears beyond

hearing. Don’t you watch TV?

my hot doppelganger, my alter-ego, demands in quick

hunger. disbelief’s tears sweep his veins

61

When, in an uneasy, sterile relationship with Who

Gangsters impatiently rub thighs against each other

Bump! Suddenly the fifty-cents dropped, and continued to drop

My store, burning in the wilderness, source of hope, of pity

Shit rattled round the bottom of his car, nothing could be done

Can anyone respect bridges, estuaries, brothel hallways anymore

They step up against my face, fling ash on my dvd collection

Hear this moment with a distanced precision

My store, a labyrinth, its purpose forgotten

Hunger her drug, her need, a halo in her bathroom

fitty cont.

well some of the next few poems that will appear here will probably be from the "fitty" series, utilising words from a different song ("What Up Gangsta") from Fifty Cent's first album (Get Rich or Die Tryin): "When gangsters bump my shit can they hear my hunger".