when i was young, i over
analysed, gave moments great epochs:
that fall that summer, the size and emotion
of the wind, the tree-shadow
on the gable and kawaii music or
old literature and cats. the boys all becoming
soulmates, over-explained but never
read. the people now are like the year:
twenty-twenty, riots riots riots. she still
doesn’t know if this
is womanhood, poetry, life or even
growing-up; is it normal to feel
all-day whiplash inside
the twenties, the paradigm: i’d explain
it like lady di, vomiting at night and
goddess at paparazzi dawn but even she
had nice skin, i am probably
(let’s be honest) camilla, at least she
was in love, and loved somewhat
by only minor fuck-up men.
poem: ‘now’
the last pavilion 