World post girl (One day in the city) by Chris Canham

World post girl (One day in the city) by Chris Canham

World Post Girl (One Day In the City)

Fuck the world - I have an agenda with pain.

A desire to fall down and scar -
die with me beautiful youth.
Innocence overwhelming -
I’ll fuck her and die by her voice.                                                  
Shit went down, I put my earth saving mission on the backburner,
and raised a cup of a different kind to my lips – hatred.

Earth-shattering and bones pulverised -
with her in me I found dissidence    
and the opposite - annihilating focus.

Find me outside of the middle.
Stars and jugular,

mother taught me nothing,
father showed me love -
but had a phobia about gangs, skin and the like.

I built a work of art that afternoon -
which tore through the city like a hurricane.
Me in her, the sun burnt out.

Effervescent globe, I dig on watching her create.
She is god.
I can walk, dance, fall down, now knowing I tested her first.



Tripping ‘cause I had a spastic soul -

out of it I was flying,

trying to fit in from the outside,

dying for a chance at life.

waiting for the correct break -

a gap in the current,

a way in to the link.

Feeling nuss I awaited her gun-head

verging, my mind was manic -

all it could be, I was dying;

Tripping, I started to panic

Tripping, I started to die…


Feint, I blew up like a bubble.

Sharp, I disintegrated,

into her, no way out of the circle

burning essence, the sun on it’s back again.

Everyone everywhere bumping heads and souls,

then running out of breath due to over exertion.


Tart, mother warned me of girls like you.

Tart, these berries make my mouth numb and my eyes itch.

Gardening, I evaporated downwards -

shovel full of love hearts, jesus gave me a second bite at the apple,

father shoved his love inside, he always loved my insides.

Brothers and sisters everywhere, clinging naked to idols of celina the moon goddess.

Dug, I like you.

Dug, I dig you.


Shun, pray the next time’s right.

Dark, a different hand for a different situation.

feeling like this is my junk,

I’m free to ingest junk now.

Carving, god told me to sit up straight.

Starving, I was so thirsty my tongue burst.

Thrive, I dig on your soul.

Thrive, my man is hideous, guard your eyesight as we walk dusty down your boulevard.


Psych, all these guns coming back to affect me;

after this we’ll all get drunk and laugh about the low points

Devotion, I wasted a month of sundays listening to your detuned radio station.

Out of my hands, I limped home from the coffee shop -

Tripping, because I had a spastic soul.

Tripping, because I dig you.

Chris Canham 

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