Posted in Poetry


I used to get fucked up
on Country Time
Lemonade—some real
1940s drama.

Just like any teen, it was all about validation.

This was when
I was fifteen and went to a place
I think was called Hobo Junction.

Women are
colder there and it’s hard
to find
a good kebab. Maybe if the weather
had been nicer, we could have
had a few
beach days.

It’s a
bit of
a long

even my dad
won’t make it
nine times
out of ten.

I mean, the trains don’t run
as well as they
say they do.

But I’m the kind of person
to just say:
Fuck it!
and get a rickshaw.



Trying to find the right words.

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