The clouds are enormous and sun-lit,
And over the fence the neighbours are laughing.
At nighttime, I can just see the city out my window,
And the wind picks up and starts to whistle.
Is this what life is?

I get coffee with a cute girl,
We stay until the café shuts and I don’t know how to feel.
I get tipsy with an old friend in the park,
And I’m laughing about drugs
In the pub with my co-workers, feeling out of my depth.
Is this what life is?

When I phone across oceans,
Getting teary-eyed, discussing the problems that follow us.
When I don’t act like I used to,
Getting dinner and a glass of wine rather than blackout drunk.
Is this what life is?

My breath stinks of coffee always now,
And I’m one of those commuters
Who nods in and out of sleep on the bus.
I go to meetings now,
I write a newsletter and act like someone important.
Is this what life is?

Is this what life is?
Someone died in the floods and I slept in.
Is this what life is?
One of my friends ended up in hospital and I didn’t know.
Is this what life is?
I’m trying really hard to file my tax returns.
Is this what life is?

There’s a last time for everything.

Watching the clock count down
To New Year’s,
Surrounded by all your friends in varying states of sobriety;
The only time you can remember recently
Where you’ve been looking forward to time passing,
Egging it on to go faster and faster.
Shouting 3, 2, 1,
And hugging with such ferocity that only alcohol produces,
Or kissing if you’re lucky.
Desperately trying to preserve the moment,
As being here, on this spinning rock,
With the people who matter as you welcome a new era.
Watching the sun come up on a bright January morning.
There’s a last time for everything.

Sitting in your car boot with your nearest and dearest,
Drinking the cheapest alcohol you could find
As the sun goes down in a blaze
Of pinks and fiery orange.
Swatting at the sandflies and recounting
How you met, all the times you laughed until you cried,
All the times you held each other’s hair over the toilet,
All the times you knew what you had was good.
Thinking about where you’re all going next,
Laying your head on her shoulder,
Shedding a few tears onto the sand.
Waking up desperately hungover and tired,
But with a sense that you finally know where you stand in the world.
There’s a last time for everything.

Going to say goodnight to your parents
For the last time in your own home.
Finding them sitting a little misty-eyed, with a space
Left for you,
Just like there always used to be.
Climbing under the covers with them,
And watching whatever shitty sitcom is on the TV.
The whole family together, cat and all,
Well aware of the significance of the moment.
Leaving because you can’t take it anymore,
And they follow you downstairs,
And tuck you into bed and turn off the lights.
There’s a last time for everything.

Oh, isn’t there always.
Signing each other’s white shirts on the last day of school.
Shaking the headmaster’s hand at graduation.
Standing in the dawn with the white caps breaking and a friend at your side.
Oh yes, there’s a last time for it all.
There’s a last time for everything.

I had to write your name
On a form for
The first time today,
And I misspelled it,
And I wonder if that’s indicative
Of something
I keep getting told how
Fast time is passing,
And that’s not doing wonders
For my mental health.
Teachers keep talking
About exams around the corner
And my mother
Mentions universities
At least once per night
And my friends are getting
Jobs and restricteds and partners;
This is the happiest I’ve felt
In forever
And it feels like it’s slipping away.
Every Friday night
When I get sad,
I want to write a letter
To my future self
Like I never wanted to in school,
Because at least if I can’t hold
Onto this happiness forever,
I can remind myself
One day
That I had it once,
And maybe that will be enough to keep going
I go for runs
Every Saturday
And I get out of breath
And I have to stop every 200 metres
And the headaches come and go,
But my coach tells me I’m doing great
And I’m showing great progression.
And I spend hours in my room
‘Working’, ‘studying’, whatever,
But really I do nothing,
Because I can’t make myself focus
Or maybe it’s really because I just
Don’t want to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing
Anymore
And I don’t want people to know.
And I wake up
And I get on trains
And I go to school
And I go to parties
And I go to bed
And maybe Lorde was right,
Because Ribs won’t stop playing
In my head
And it makes me think about
Stonefields,
And how I learnt to ride a bike
And how I climbed out on the roof
And how I put my head through the wall
And how I was only 7
And lord where did that boldness go,
Because by god if now I’m not just
Some shell who blushes when called on in class
And who can’t talk to people he sees every day
You should have nothing to
Do with this poem, really,
But like most things these days,
I link it back to you nonetheless.
And maybe it’s because I don’t know what we are yet
Or maybe it’s because I know how it’ll end
Or maybe it’s because I know you, you’re like me, and I know we can’t work,
Not really;
But everyday my friend tells me about how happy he is,
How he can’t wait till the next time he sees his boyfriend,
How they’re both going mental because they haven’t seen
Each other in a week (gasp!),
And I want that,
God I want that,
But I can’t feel it about you,
Or anyone, really;
Because I want that life
Of pining
And picnic dates
And kisses on public transport
And being so loved up everyone hates you;
But I think I love the chase more than the catch,
I think, to paraphrase another writer better than me,
That I’m fundamentally broken,
In some subtle but essential way
But I still address every poem
As if you’re reading them,
My imaginary audience;
Well, how’s this?
I couldn’t wait for puberty to kick in
And now I go nuts if I don’t shave
Every other day (which you know is more than necessary),
And should I be more guarded about this?
Meh??
What’s the point?
This way,
I get to hear my history teacher
Stumble terribly over my new pronouns
(She is trying),
And watch the senior staff
Sweat over the threat of my existence
To their precious school image,
And worry day and night
In the back of my head,
Like a broken record player,
About how everyone else would react,
And how I would look
(Would I be hot??),
And sometimes I look in the mirror
And am disgusted with who I am
And other times I look in the mirror
And am disgusted with who I want to be.
I just feel like I have to make a decision,
But I don’t wanna ruin Senior Ball
And look like some grotesque in the photos,
But my hips don’t set until I’m 18,
I just feel like I’m running out of time!
Time
Time
Time
Time
Time
It’s always the fucking clock!
Ticking away
Reminding
Watching
Waiting
Death’s faithful little right-hand man

There is nothing quite
Like the present moment
With you.

The brown grass
Is ticklish on our backs
And the late summer sun
Casts our skin
Golden in re-creation
Of heaven
And the never-cool-enough wind
Blows in softly from the Pacific.

At the end of it all,
What more could we have done?
The chants and cries
Of the riotous crowds
Echo up the valleys.
Did we do it right?
Did we live it right?
Were we enough?

Seeing the world
From above,
Bathed in its soft pastels,
Will never be quite as
Peaceful
As it used to be.
Sliding over the aquamarine
Never again so carefree,
When you could get lost
In the rocking of the waves
And the whispers of the winds
And the worlds which saw you pass.

What path should we have taken?
Flames crackling up window panes.
Death in the air.
Blood in the streets.
No one in charge.
Wasn’t it all inevitable?
Weren’t we our own executors?

We’re the audience
Of the show
We’re all trapped in.
The laugh track
Plays and plays.
It hits all the emotional
Cues; there’s ooohs and aaahs.
Tears and applause.
We turn off the TV
And go to bed.

Wind blows through
The long grasses
In the fields,
And you remember your childhood.
The end a cruel mockery
Of the beginning.
Puddles splashed,

Wrists slit,
Breakdowns
Of every sort.
I still remember
The scars you wore.
You can still see them.
The apples from
The tree at the end of your yard
Are starting to fall and rot.

God, it’s a cesspit,
But where else would you have us?
No, this is our home,
This is what we deserve;
We made this bed,
And the night has fallen,
And it’s time to tuck ourselves in.