I am from white male writers:
from Gaiman, Orwell, King.
I am from clockwork oranges and Nineteen Eighty-Four.
I’m from “Don’t be like that”,
from pro patria mori.
I am from a way with words
that I questioned,
The Old Lie.
I am from waiting for the jingling of keys,
from Tupperwares of empty coffee packets,
then from tired games of chess and Monkey on the mattress.
I am from timetables for times tables,
from structured workaholism.
I am from pdfs and Excel spreadsheets
highlighted for my
I am from no New Year visitors,
from late hours shared by three
I am from bruise-ringed eyes and the desktop glare at night.
I am from pretending to be lost,
from empty seats on awards day.
I am from “Just be happy” and “No expectations”,
as if two voices
could usurp the world.
I am from outside the gate of every church and temple,
from choking on sandalwood,
I am from slammed doors on missionaries and crumpled invitations.
I am from a trash-strewn beach,
from failed searching for a god.
I am from noisy funerals and headlines
that I red-inked