hate the boys
with the arched eyebrows
and perfectly-sculpted cheekbones

hate the girls
with the anorexia waists
and desirably-jutting ribcages

hate the reflection
with the aggressive lips
and fashionably-smeared eyes

it's all one and the same
under neon signs about as constant
as my last lover:

off and on again,
night-time cheerful in pink and yellow

"he was a funny fellow...
you would have liked him."



we live in the in-between
where the asphalt's always wet
and tastes like someone else's liquor


where the alleys are bedrooms
and no one's got a sense of shame



but there's plenty of pride to go around



i hate the boys
that get the boys i want


"it's a pity, really
out-sexed by the opposite gender."


they croon to one another
when business is slow,
queueing in the corners
with eyeliners, compacts
and this unshakable air
of self-assurance


i'm jealous of them
to the point of being sick



the girls don't fare much better
but i hate them all the same

we're all fighting for what the boys leave us
and it's every-bitch-for-herself

because no one wants to stop for breath

because we might see someone else


deep down
we know we're nothing more
than cheap bits of forgetfulness
and we hate ourselves for it


but it's easier to hate each other

and the boys
who are perfect

and the girls
who are fierce



hate them, hate them hating me, hate me



hate the boys
who sleep with mine

hate the girls
who sleep with me

hate the me
who does not sleep





i lay awake at night
and wish i were a fag

(i use that term most lovingly)


if i've got to be a gutterfuck,
at least i'd be a pretty one.