Stand In/Out


you can build a house
out of years of white lies
and some sad author’s hopes
but you can never build a home.

what was dulcet tastes like rust
and what can only be frustration.
i resent your summer teeth
and curse your winter lungs.

bask in your coterie of loneliness,
and your short-list resume
of some half-assed ribaldic publication.
go climb inside your assumptions,
maybe pack a bowl for your martyrdom.

you’ll do fine, not everyone sees through you.
cold, worn, and pale like the glass
you cradled gentler than you ever did me.


cashed the meager pay on harrowed path
towards a liquor store named after a saint,
at least irony’s not always lost on me.

the walk home is lighter with empty pockets.
smokes, drinks, and endless Lifetime films
hey man, you’ve really done well for yourself.
and all the books strewn about the sty
have started to collect dust on cherished covers,
and when did it all suddenly turn
into an endless thread of things that could have been?

each night it runs ad nauseam like a film on a reel.
full of cheap drinks and loads of shit,
it’s all about the laughs and blanket statements
to girls with that “i just want to be fucked” stare.

yet when the sun throws up across the horizon
and light cakes the streets of brunswick town,
the needle’s moved to the start of that same record
which for years now has been wearing thin.

i sing along to ballads of what is and what could have been.

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