Love In Suburbia
We fuck to
spluttering lawn mowers
our bodies ring across the
neighbourhood
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
cheeks
Your vanilla bean anatomy
could melt the
granite pigment
of these flaccid-faced men.
N.G. is a 17-year-old writer from Melbourne.