Wild Court

An international poetry journal based in the English Department of King’s College London

Two poems by T.P.E


    Parable II


Here, lads, this song, No
Eyes, reminds me when –
this the common end
to a normal night,
being after, well
in the new day, stooped
but standing over
a laptop, headphones

at the end of their tethers,
harsh pebbles on eardrum –
I was dancing, the spasm
done when really beyond,
towards something, want to be

decomposed so hard you shake
when, wrapped in said reverie,
I threw my real head with No
Eyes off the clear blunting screen.

A numb ice-star of pain explored the land
beyond the right socket.
God, it felt like everything - one clip
in my eyebrow, a cut
to go brown, drowned itself babe-red. Staid for
now. Within seconds blood
mapped half my face; I stared at the mirror
of the wall, a crystal
sheet where I glared, often, at my wide-eyed

soul sinning by the computer,
cooing softly the ghost of my mother
leaving the pink church of my mouth
in the name of calm and shortened moments.

And I could sit on this pyramid of clothes
and whisper out this story to upset you
into loving me. I could speak to myself,
tut like fictional husbands, clean their hands far
from my body, gorgeous and damaged and chaste.


    Go Queen


I’m fierce, I’m fabulous, I lurk 
in the dark of underground clubs 
in baroque blouse and black choker 
and watch me swing, girl, watch me switch. 
Chakras spill over my loincloth. 
Boys can lick the air around me 
but the field of attraction slays 
for no one but me, me dancing 
in the midnight rainbow as I

enter the cubicle. Beads of sweat pulse 
to the beat. Francis Bacon sings to me:
Go, Queen! Go home. Squatting like The Thinker  
I stare back at the pimples on my thighs, 
the markings of disease, dark pustules 
like chocolate shells. Come on, girl, you got this -  
the perpetual stain of skin. The lust
for bitter seed, an antihistamine.