stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17532
    [post_author] => 16
    [post_date] => 2016-11-10 17:43:45
    [post_date_gmt] => 2016-11-10 17:43:45
    [post_content] => I.
moon rays fit the crumbling street,
cut in jaggered dreams: the fixer’s jig
begins at midnight, when he runs sexed
and screaming through the graveyard. and here,
a bowl, a tongue;
                       my landlord drinks mindlessly,
            spits on his fingers, flats his hair to the tips
            and trails perfect kisses as a boy who is a god.
a bone, a girl smoothed in lampstain,
                        because here, death turns – all gut, all rot,
                        rattling tramcars, all grease.
                        because she’s chewing gum and starts, all elbows,
                        all skidmarks, no scars,
                        but the bathroom and
                                     yellowish lampstain –
                        this is where lovers sidewalk, prebirth of christ, where
                                    my smoking, silver prince barrels them,
                                                climbing the sky,
                                                           violet comets, pollution
                                                                                                 her skin.

II.
prince and she’ll hook herself,
pin beads to her earlobes, mouth
ajar,
            lured.
prince and she’ll gouge fish
toiletstone yellow, make hairspray from burrs
wasp-like,
            crushed,
            when he pours vodka into her tea. she sips
            warm diesel, no coffee, mindlessly –
            when he goes mad, she jumps from a factory
                                                                        desperation,
                                               yellow tequila:
            he sees
                       a crust of cheese
                       an arabesque
                       a gutter.
    [post_title] => Phantoms
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => phantoms
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2016-11-14 12:34:07
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2016-11-14 12:34:07
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=17532
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2016
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the 2nd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge  on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2016.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => 2nd prize winner, Who is Giselle? poetry challenge 2016
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
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            [ID] => 17522
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Annie Fan
            [slug] => annie-fan
            [content] => Annie is the 2nd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge on Young Poets Network.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17522
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Annie Fan
    [slug] => annie-fan
    [content] => Annie is the 2nd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge on Young Poets Network.
)

Phantoms

Annie Fan

I.
moon rays fit the crumbling street,
cut in jaggered dreams: the fixer’s jig
begins at midnight, when he runs sexed
and screaming through the graveyard. and here,
a bowl, a tongue;
                       my landlord drinks mindlessly,
            spits on his fingers, flats his hair to the tips
            and trails perfect kisses as a boy who is a god.
a bone, a girl smoothed in lampstain,
                        because here, death turns – all gut, all rot,
                        rattling tramcars, all grease.
                        because she’s chewing gum and starts, all elbows,
                        all skidmarks, no scars,
                        but the bathroom and
                                     yellowish lampstain –
                        this is where lovers sidewalk, prebirth of christ, where
                                    my smoking, silver prince barrels them,
                                                climbing the sky,
                                                           violet comets, pollution
                                                                                                 her skin.

II.
prince and she’ll hook herself,
pin beads to her earlobes, mouth
ajar,
            lured.
prince and she’ll gouge fish
toiletstone yellow, make hairspray from burrs
wasp-like,
            crushed,
            when he pours vodka into her tea. she sips
            warm diesel, no coffee, mindlessly –
            when he goes mad, she jumps from a factory
                                                                        desperation,
                                               yellow tequila:
            he sees
                       a crust of cheese
                       an arabesque
                       a gutter.