Brutalism: Poems by Alex Creece

By | 16 August 2019
Special Needs
Hold me like hospital hands,
squared-eyed and cubist in the cranium.
It all happens and happens and—
Sorry, I just need to do your obs for the night.
His talcum phlegm
chalks yesterday’s sneeze,
chokes me
with a slap of latex.
Clip my supervised toenails.
Don’t forget your socks.
Bare feet are dangerous,
but you’re safe.
So safe here.

No, I’m not offended.
We can discuss it all:
—each pair of shoes I can’t grow into,
—the toys I don’t grow out of,
—these things I won’t become.
No, my parents aren’t disappointed.
They have no other choice.
No, no! I’m really not offended!
Have no other choice.

Cut your throat from the inside out.
Eggshelled oesophagus,
soggy and perforated and perfect as you.
Let me build a nest from polio death like the bones of a treehouse
carried by its still-blossomed brother. 
I’ve got a fucking birdlike appetite and by this, I mean 
I pick at carcasses and swoop your bleach-breathed children
until they’re down the hatch and vomiting a splinter.
Rotten eggs vaccinated
only with your fear 
of me. 

A snowcone upturned on the sidewalk,
I cannot reach inside until I melt.
Melt. I need help.
Bleeding blue raspberry
in Ramadan,
through the blacked-out windows
of Howl’s Moving Casbah.
Seven types of sand, did you know? Does it matter?
I buy Frankenstein and fried rice
in the absence of all else.
Ten years of
howling into melted dust,
but what will come first—
my echo or the end?

Bodies of blisters, bowlegged,
so topical I rub them into broken skin. 
My pieces are missing because I ate them in the womb.
A mother’s bile regurgitated, 
varicose veins in a venus trap, 
genetic flaws: my only life to live.
And I’d eat you too.
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