Bad poems

By | 13 May 2024


It’s fucking odd to know you’re also just
another person. Makes sense, I guess.
You too drink cold Milo and spill coffee

on whites. You too write bad poems
and read better ones. You too sing off-key
in the shower and totter off-kilter

after three glasses of wine. You too
walk beside me, glancing up
into sun-glittered tree, squinting

to see the culprit:
a lone lorikeet, screeching.


It’s fucking odd to know you’re also
attracted to me. I mean, I like me
but how the fuck did we get to the point

where you like me too? We both drink
cold beers and spill curry across white
tablecloth. We both write bad poems

about each other and read better ones
in bed out loud as day whispers
through hotel’s curtains. We both glance up

to see the culprit:
the sun singing, rising.

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