sleep, boredom, gossip, cruelty imaginary feuds and small resentments various, complex plans that amount to nothing at some point, every poet has to admit art is just a distraction from the boredom of life

every morning I get dressed and I walk past the road outside the Salvation Army overflowing with toys and clothes and plastic crap I think they probably deserve it for being so explicitly homophobic in their core organizational values

I work all day in a bookshop each night when I come home it’s dark, and the rain is falling covering the world in black diamonds some days I feel so deep inside my life I don’t think I’ll ever get out again

I never read the Russians but I have read most of the Babysitters Club I can’t remember the meaning of poetry other than it’s a broken telephone with which to call the dead and tell them a joke

life is great it’s like being given a rare and historically significant flute and using it to beat a harmless old man to death with

I used to think the more something hurt, the more meaningful it was but I never learned anything useful from pain I just drank a bottle of wine and tried to fall asleep when you’re unhappy you can’t think pain is just boredom with the stars turned up

there’s not much I like in this world I’m always walking away too early in a conversation and having to yell apologetically back over my shoulder

I don’t think good art comes from happiness either but who said good art was the point