Two Poems / by N.G.

Love In Suburbia 

We fuck to 
spluttering lawn mowers
our bodies ring across the 
like empty beer bottles

chiming the pretend moans 
of back-pocket latex
the hurried climax of 
drive-through love 

brings cigarette head spins
pavement bile, crusted blood-
a splintered phone screen
flashes 16 missed calls.





A Well Dressed Morning

The soft sigh of the French press
mocks your breath,
          gentle as your pale pink lingerie you

slick the words 
before you curl them out the corners 
of your pillow-patterned 

Your vanilla bean anatomy 
could melt the 
granite pigment 
of these flaccid-faced men.





N.G. is a 17-year-old writer from Melbourne.