Brutalism: Poems by Alex Creece

By | 16 August 2019
The Kind of Voice that Angers Men on Public Transport
I thought I was 
supposed to be the one
with the 
fucking social impairment.

trying to hold 
this voice in my throat
an act of amphibian alchemy 
spitting out galumphfs
from ladidadidas.
the echolalia of lily pads and lily-livers.

I wish that I could exist out here
and not end up 
crying on a tram
in a constant state of leaky lobotomy 
every time an unknown man has an opinion
scrambling my synapses
to snot.

shame is a scab of 
peanut butter mucus
anchored to my gag reflex.
I can’t breathe through it
but I can’t swallow it either.
so I just hock it into the clouds
until they finally send me rain. 

I know I can only be phlegmatic
if I twist its definition
to simply mean
full of phlegm and fluids. 
and sometimes I get so flustered 
that every word
just starts to sound like 
those mumbo jumbo 
Oprah invents to avoid saying the word vagina.


feed me faux pas forgiveness
in sepia tones
like old timey photographs that scream aesthetic 
and croak bubonic.
I guess I like things that I can chew into soggy ammunition
because I may be an easy target
but you’re not the one with the spitball.
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