Poetry

Exhibition

The gallery is vibrant.

I know this because I’ve been told.

They said the subjects of the paintings

are brimming with colour,

rainbows practically spilling out of the frames and onto the smooth panelled floor.

I see only the colour around the subject.

Blocked from seeping in,

as though simply touching those sketchy outlines

will leech away the pigment

until nothing is left.

They told me I see the world this way because I’m depressed,

that the chemistry of my brain has gone awry

and muddies everything I lay eyes on.

I don’t think they’re wrong,

but I also think that maybe

I’ve just developed the superpower

to see another dimension.

Poetry

Boogie

The ribcage was tied with bows –

blue, pink, green – visible

as the sequinned waistcoat flapped open

from the sharp hip swaying.

Kinetic. Tangible.

Creepier than she imagined.

Unless it was imagined.

Hallucinogens pumped into the air, perhaps?

Her best friend was now

an orange rat, after all.

And she was sure she’d had

more skin before.