Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

those girls

Amelia is easily enraged and
often ugly. MaryAnn
is omnipresent and annoyingly
persistent. and you’re definitely
better off without
Laura’s lovesick laments.

I, too, am quick to outrage
and get ugly often
so I feel you, Amelia.
I, too, am lovesick
and want more
than what’s on offer,
so I feel you MaryAnn
and Laura.

those girls you sing about
feel so very familiar
under their various aliases.
in fact, they seem like
pretty cool chicks,
if their only real crime
is liking you.
you should introduce me
sometime. unless perhaps I
already know them, maybe even
as well as I know myself.

re: our angelic friend

yes, he was drunk, but
our friend Raphael was not
talking nonsense last night
anywhere near as much
as you thought. all the things
he did and said, like getting you to say
you loved him
in front of me
and saying how good it was
to see us “guys” together
in that strange, knowing tone
and telling us to get out of there
with an odd half-smile
and finally when he ranted
about how you needed to
look up at the sky
– from which the rain
was falling in giant
unmistakable drops,
impossible to ignore, like a sign
from heaven – were direct references
to that subject, the one about which
we dare not speak. that’s why
I didn’t tell you about it
after we left him,
because then
we’d have to speak about it.

Continue reading re: our angelic friend

Ouija

get out
the board. we’re going to
summon up some
spirits. since I have to live
with you teeming myriads,
you ghostly throngs, you
entities that can never be
laid to rest, I suppose I’d better
buckle down and learn
your names. that way
when someone fucks up
and does something stupid,
ill-advised, or totally
unwarranted, I’ll know who’s
to blame.

Stockholm Syndrome

if I accept all your flaws
and unconditionally love all
your behavior, regardless
of how it really makes
me feel, will you promise
never to leave me? if I’m a good
girl and don’t complain, never
make life difficult for you,
will you fill this void
in my heart, this black hole
that lives where my heart
should be? don’t answer that.
no single human
can be ever be
enough for me, so I’ll take
what crumbs I can get.

mayday

I am a lonely robot
slowly dying, alone
in the vast emptiness
of space. I bleat out my
distress signal but
it’s gradually, imperceptibly
growing weaker, as passing
rockets and satellites
continue to ignore it
and me, I continue to
die by degrees. and yet
I can’t stop saying it, to
myself and to
the unfeeling stars:
S.O.S.
mayday mayday mayday
S.O.S.
mayday mayday mayday
S.O.S.
mayday
mayday
mayday
S.
O.
S.
mayday

telepathy

“what are you thinking?” my mother
used to ask me, whenever
we were alone and I was quiet
for more than ten minutes. I can
never remember now what I
actually was thinking, because
as soon as she said it, my mind
always went blank, wiped clean
like a blackboard, like a kill switch
on a computer, erasing all
the data instantly, just
so I could say “nothing”
and have it be true
in that moment, so that
part of me could believe it,
because that’s the only way
people with glass faces
can tell lies.

Continue reading telepathy

how you really feel

him: we’re not dating.
me: tell
me how you really feel.
him: I don’t like you
that way.
me: tell me
how you really feel.
him: you’ll thank me
for this later.
me: tell me how
you really feel.
him: I’m not over
my ex.
me: tell me how you
really feel.
him: you’re boy crazy.
me: tell me how you really
feel.
him: I don’t miss you, I
don’t need you, I don’t
love you.
me: okay you can stop
telling me now.