trash twink god

There was a time when everything was pleasing
because it lacked a name
I was chopping wood in a forest the size of a quark
beneath a roll of cheese instead of a clock
then, across the tundra
came a man
in a chariot pulled by two horses
he said, run, you horses of war
the horses said,
I am the day herself creeping into the garden
fifteen years old at my first funeral
I cannot possibly understand what you’re going through.
this is a crafty way of saying, you horrify me.
you do, everything does.
this town for instance
has all the pale charm of a clinic
I list my sexual orientation as disappointed
refer to the house I have lived in for five years as the new place
have not set foot in the garden since day 1
this feels like
foulness of swimming pool tiles
against your feet
years pass thru you like
a pill in some stranger’s bathroom
you said you couldn’t be in a bad mood if you tried
the man came to you, put his hand on your shoulder
told you how
to paint with feeling
fuck off, you said
wrote such a world that night
the save file reads:

. anal fatigue .
buy grapes


fare e w ell

al anderson is a writer and artist from Birmingham, UK. Some recent poetry can be found in Datableed, The Suburban Review and Modern Queer Poets. He occasionally posts on Instagram @al__anderson