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truthfully i’ve been throwing up

and not writing. truthfully I folded

over looking for signs of subhuman activity. truthfully there

was blood in the gusset. truthfully

it smelled like an old friend. truthfully my partner

with the full weight of their body

on mine and assured me no kidney disorder. truthfully

it is the foremost act of love and care truthfully i

don’t trust anyone. truthfully a bit of a repetition compulsion. truthfully a

rumination that houses itself behind the eyes. truthfully it

obscures seeing. truthfully in passing a tattered brown

office chair i thought, anything can be fixed. truthfully

i made note. truthfully blue trim on a white

facade. that part is true.



oh my god hi how are you all? how is every single person here doing

the entire gang all two of you? that’s really great to hear that you’re

great and i am doing great as well. it’s so good that we’re all great

and it’s so nice to meet in this place i never wanted

to run into you although this was always a possibility you played out in your mind's

closed circuit looping the beat. let me proffer the

smallest bit of information that is totally serene and

permissible i’m coaching now! and i’m wearing incredibly distracting

shoes mules that look like they’re made of burnished baby skin

or the most newborn slaughtered calf like i took the final girl

from a horror movie flayed her and put her on my feet the

beauty and barbarism of them, like a breaded calf muscle seems

socially inappropriate to comment on now maybe i’ll see you at the thing

you’re definitely not going to maybe maybe see you later see you around!



loading sound down the holster

of your throat or growling

below the nosey waterline

concerning doing what i say

the first fucking time— okay yeah okay

i didn’t have to wield my anger

carved ebony dagger from a

suspicious etsy listing i could chillax

crank it down to sotto voce

this audiobook begs me to

consider each spoonful, sit

flatly with loosed esophagus

blown open for chunks of stir-fry

praying to the god of maybe, which, tomorrow

credit card in the back pocket

where i wash it and wash it and wash it again

until flayed of its credit card skin, amen



my grief that i ate

black grape

yes and willingly

cat with fur attaché

gifts the window

quite late

river’s mouth

toes grow toes and other fungi

fire alarm sleep

housed in the children memory

christmas tree tinseled with hair trimmings

husk of your mothers fathers living

shortbread and chickenpox for sharing

city ringed in ice cream songs

holding the fog’s breath

down the street women pleasure

pools under crisped up cups

my finger is not so eager

but water has fingers, and so

palming tokens of purple-belled flowers

pupils bloom

with the suggestion of water

earlier still

skirts lost to more skirts

cowhide and red patent leather

orders a lager for the ride home

lovers would like me to turn them over

fucking into a wall of

unused sound, but i’m uncertain

if given permission



funny little how-was-your-day

a student lost the table where

the papers go she rode the elevator up up

down up up down no tables there

but the worrying sense made her

push and push on buttons

one person who would have the answer went on their

indefinite lunch break and everyone else got the date

wrong sent mails to a moniker


to a dickensian character like

starbelly or drummelfoot you might

as well take your good mornings,

post scripts, follow ups and

quick quest-ions and light them

up in the atrium

the dean was putting on

a green monster mask—classic,

like a scooby-doo villain

stuffed linebacker shoulders

and the knees a little groovy ready to

leap out of a cabinet and award herself

one of the top fifty women in the field of yadda yadda

doing business, death’s realty

the editor emailed me to say we’ll take

the piece but the spelling

is not sufficiently british being a

pleasure-maker of what lies in front of me i replied,

consider it fossilised

in close approximation

of a face to face meeting

we scraped together dead

hyperlinks with one missed character

like a dropped hatpin, loosening the curls of the url.

my doves, i cry, the zoom link stays

the same every time!



short and shoutable single syllable both a verb

and a noun like a boy _____ i say to

the wads of people asking me

myself in the starched khaki shirt big

breast pockets squared off edges,

dreidel knees jutting out

jumbling around in tick high grass

limbs extra pointy, hair stuck with gel,

or as a sheepdog nose pointed

cliffside trying to create a border

with motion, running running all around open air

corralling the rummage drawer bits of life

your lost keyboard keys, my split ends

to hold them here, this sun soaked

meadow, my peaceful tableau, my

love so low fence so daylong you can’t help

but be

cattle by it


Scout Faller (they/them) has poetry published in HAD, Hot Pink Mag, and Ursus Americanus press, with poems forthcoming in the tiny and lowly dirt children. They live in San Francisco with their girlfriend and their cat. They’re on instagram @boredgeoisie__. You can find more of their work at

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