Scream Queens

Darling, the cameras are watching.

*

*

Imagine: It is late winter; you are standing
next to a pond, holding yourself frozen; 
you are about to die a horrible death, and all lights
are on you, and the director is barking 
into his ridiculous megaphone,
wearing an equally ridiculous pair of sunglasses, as if
moonlight would burn him. And in this movie
you are the first girl – the innocent sacrifice, 
the foolish blonde – except that you are not.
Your hair a dark mane around your face, your eyes 
sharp enough at the corners, non-compliance
promised. Your mouth’s a straight line, obstinate. 
When you move, the set rumbles
like thunderstruck. Sadly you are but a name on the
deadroll. ‘Listen, all you need to do is scream’, the director says,
commanding you to smile. Your skinny legs
bare and shivering in the cold, and in a few minutes
you will be dragged into the water, wailing and kicking
bloody murder. You are looking at the monster, your co-star, thinking 
‘I can kill three of you with a chair leg’, thinking ‘I should be the monster
in the lake’, thinking ‘When will I stop being a parody for men’s entertainment
and an excuse for women’s
discontent?’ The director is still giving commands
but you’ve stopped listening.
You should have stopped
from the start. Imagine: It is late winter, it is 11:46. You dip your feet 
into the cold water and shiver.
‘It will be fast’, the monster tells you, his teeth glistening
banal desires; the corner of his mouth threatening
to swallow you whole like a ripe apple. 
‘It will be fast,’ he whispers, voice like a noose,
‘Just pretend to thrash a little and give in,
and I’ll pull you down,
and I’ll pull you out of the cold.
You wouldn’t even feel it.’

*

Sun, 19/11/2023.
Ant.

After Club Hours

let us run into the night laughing, let us die with a young heart.

*

*

The olive branches are staring
back when I snap them in half.
Dig into the dirt, I kick my heels
and you say ‘come here, you
monkey.’ Your hands are cold
and there is a burn rippling
in me which could warm
both of us. We are standing in a
parking lot, there are no car
in this ungodly hour and we let the sun
climb over our shoulders, greeting
sad eyes, sad mouths, staggering
hands folded over each other
like paper planes. We are sitting
in a parking lot, both twenty-one.
You take off your shoes, dangling them
by the thin straps, saying ‘I don’t blister
when drunk dancing’, and I’m thinking
‘then how are we going to remember it
the night after, and the night after, and
the night after?’ and I’m thinking
‘memories: we’re pressing pain
against our ears and listen to its
beats’, and I’m thinking ‘love,
let’s walk home, and brew coffee,
and have a shower, and climb
in bed together; and make slow
patient love, listening to our bodies
in that deliberate music, stripped
from all the loud noises of the night
before, outside our windows’.
We pick at the wild blooms
on the sidewalk. Porous asphalt
and concrete cracking, opening up
little doors to life. I give you a flower
no one would buy, so in a sense it is
priceless; your hair loose, your lipstick
smeared, your short skirt scrunched up
and your nose too when you smile
the nectar in my veins is bursting
back into flowers. Always
so violently, youth kisses

like it could kill us.

*

Sat 28/10/2023.
Ant.