Carbon’s Ode to Oxygen

Each of my allotropes

Understand your every molecule.

Though if we’re talking nanochemistry

I guess that won’t impress you.

 

You’ve delocalised all of my electrons

Each tender touch forms another covalent bond

I long for you

In my lonely salt solution.

 

I’ve been getting the current from anode and cathode

They tell me to make th-th-th-the first move.

I’m worried

That my atoms aren’t massive enough to get you to like me.

How many half-lives must I decay through?

All I want is to change state in your eyes.

 

Bond with me baby

We can make things happen.

I’ve never doubted that we

Are a match made in conical flask.

 

C’med darlin’

Everyone knows

Everyone knows

That we can make holes

In the atmosphere.

 

I’ve been getting the current from anode and cathode

They tell me to make th-th-th-the first move.

I’m worried

That my atoms aren’t massive enough to get you to like me.

How many half-lives must I decay through?

All I want is to change state in your eyes.

 

I’ll be anything you want, any state, any allotrope

I’ll be anything you want, any state, any allotrope.

Diamond.

Graphite.

Buck-minster fullerene. I’m all yours.

Solid. Liquid. Gas.

This love will never pass.

Porphyria’s Liver

the prick came home early tonight
my sullen eyes barely awake
he saw me sprawled in front of the ten o’clock news
and rolled his eyes, like he’s any better.

he put the kettle on, and, without offering,
put a lone spoonful of nescafe
into a lone mug
that i bought from matalan
thirteen days ago.
so while he goes for a piss
i heave up, pour over water and milk
heave back, smirk to myself,
my coffee. prick.

these pathetic victories are what i’ve come to rely on.
day to day he’s the one that wins
out with his friends, mine disapproved of him
and lost touch on purpose
because i chose love, passion prevailed.
where’s his passion now?!
when he leaves the door open to shit
and i live out “common people”
hungover from cheap wine that i drank alone last night
rolling my own cigarettes. 

he knows i worship him
like the dog worships it’s pedigree chum
he’s all i’m offered 
so i let him in my bowl because i’ve got fuck all else on the menu
stumped. 

I don’t care enough to kill the prick,
but while i debate what to do,
my blue eyes laugh without a stain
as the nicotine gets my fingers and the ceiling
and white doesn’t cancel out red.

Homage to Browning’s Porphyria’s Lover, otherwise known as my favourite poem ever

Diary of a Disgruntled Rodent

And just as I nod off, she awakes, banging and groaning, with her bright lights, her poisonous sprays, and that horrid hot wind that sneak down through my bars, down my ears, into my poor little head.
I can feel her nearing me, peering into my home. The dreaded -thunk- as she opens the door, oh woe! I scrunch tighter -unable to shut my eyes, they twitch in their sockets. The hand, oh, that horrible hand! Clamped around me, forcing my breath like an iron lung so that sawdust catches in my nose -pcht-. The hand keeps me from escape, salt and chemical and dairy on my whiskers, filling my nose. I quite like that actually, is it butter? I wouldn’t mind a little if you’d be so kind! Oh, delicious, marvellous, thank you, oh Hand of Doom, Fingers of Fate, bringers of such sumptuous delights!

The Poet Who’s Not Quite Sure if She Knows it Or Not

For me, poetry… Well I never was fond
They were boring and long
About springtime or wartime
A big weighty chore of mine
Reeking gee-cee-ess-ees
And “interpret-as-you-please”
Well, excuse me.

I’m a child of my generation
Suckled on teletubbies and CGI animation
Used to instant gratification.
Of course I read grown-up books
(Mainly just so I can throw judgemental looks)
I’ve found my cosy social nook.

But, one day, on a whim
I found myself let in
With a Waterstone’s token
And my poetic silence broken.
Ok, so I’m clearly no ‘pro’
(As you’re sure to now know)
My attempts at iambic pentameter
Are about as convincingly regular
As the bus I get to school
With my rhyming style ‘typically un-cool’.

But I’ve got my ‘young’ title for a reason
So I can get up to my knees in
Finding my feet
(If you’ll pardon the pun.
I’m sure I’ll grow out of finding them fun)

So, in twenty years time
Come back and you’ll find
A starving artiste
Who solely can feast
On her bitterly critical
Observations political…

More likely, perhaps
I’ll just have lots of cats
With no one to read the works of my Bic
(Undoubtedly formed into limerick)
And every night I’ll fret
That no one’s made my Wikipedia entry yet.

Stasya’s Elephant

finished my midterm bitchezz!

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a summary of why last year sucked balls

// I wrote this crap in my halls last year, maybe mayish? soz for the tone like. first draft of something i’ll pawn off as new for uni at some point //

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SLEDGE HANNAH: My mother is a nurse

sledgehannah:

And just handed me a wad of paper and asked me to type it up for her.
I obliged. Now I will show you.

A catheter is a handy thing
That lies between your thighs
It saves you getting up at night
And gives your wife a surprise

Cathy Torr was a skinny lass
Who lived inside a willy
She hung around…

Grump cancer strikes

I get a call dragging me, kicking and screaming, into work. Our happy lazy day is ruined. Panic for the bus, uniform, lunch, late late late. Already crabby, your light humour and petty comments make me snap at you and I leave, sweaty and flustered. Just enough for a day return ticket and a pack of ten menthols; I indulge because you’re not there to tell me I shouldn’t.

Sucking on cold fire at the stop, my phone vibrates in my rain-soaked pocket. A unnecessarily sad, apologetic message from you. I’m guilty and sorry. I’ll see you later.

This is just to say

I have used
the soap and glory body scrub
that you left
in the bathroom

and which
you were probably
saving

for before a hot date

Forgive me
it was lovely
I was so smelly
and so gross

chill out, sweetcorn: Porphyria's Liver

chilloutsweetcorn:

the prick came home early tonight
my sullen eyes barely awake
he saw me sprawled in front of the ten o’clock news
and rolled his eyes, like he’s any better.

he put the kettle on, and, without offering,
put a lone spoonful of nescafe
into a lone mug
that i bought from matalan
thirteen days ago.
so…