My Face Saw Her Magazine

Poem By Sam Riviere

across the moonscapes of skateparks you are 13 yrs old
& no longer allowed to play with boys / on platform 6
wearing your amazing cape you are not in fact you
but someone else / while I'm a guy who mishears lyrics
resulting in a more beautiful but private understanding
with your dark fringe white shirt & straw hat you are
the palest goth at the picnic / resolutely uncharmed
by my very charming friend you are the poster of disinterest
in bed & matching underwear you are disguising the tunnel
we dug in the american prison / not answering my texts
what you are is the briefcase glowing with golden contents
I realise I can only look in one eye at a time / it is pure
propaganda the pupil a blot of blackest inkjet ink
in your luxury woollen garment you are an advertisement
for luxury woollen garments / & then & then you wink

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there is no purer form of advertising
than writing a poem
that's what the monk told me
if I were a conceptual artist

The Council of Girls

Today I stand before you
uncertain of my guilt
of what I am accused
or should say sorry for

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hi i should like to have the answers
to shall we say certain questions
and to wake up certain of directions
and a levelness of breathing and