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    [ID] => 22543
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2021-12-21 14:16:14
    [post_date_gmt] => 2021-12-21 14:16:14
    [post_content] => 

‘I’m Thelma, you’re Louise’ - Dean Winchester to Castiel in Supernatural 05x03

Contains strong language

This is the age of nocturnality and constant motion,
where the velvet night is streaked with cheap glare
and the white stripes of the road. You drum on the dash
to the mixtape I ripped from the radio, songs cut
with bright babble for the long-haul truckers. I need you
to read between the lines, but you don’t know how.
Framed by the windscreen, we are waltz-weary
and far less lonely than the Hopper print on the diner wall.
We are hands rested six inches apart on a greasy tabletop –
Formica flecked with crumbs, this world’s neon answer
to terrazzo. We are pissing in neighbouring cubicles;
I poke my foot under the partition to make you laugh,
which you do. My world lights up, we flush in unison
and leave, opening the door onto the blue forecourt.

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    [ID] => 21230
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Victoria Fletcher
    [slug] => victoria-fletcher
    [content] => Victoria is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2020. She is the second-prize winner of Super Mario, Fidget Spinners & Beyoncé: The Pop Culture Poetry Challenge on Young Poets Network and was commended in the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
)

I’m Thelma, You’re Louise

Victoria Fletcher

‘I’m Thelma, you’re Louise’ – Dean Winchester to Castiel in Supernatural 05×03

Contains strong language

This is the age of nocturnality and constant motion,
where the velvet night is streaked with cheap glare
and the white stripes of the road. You drum on the dash
to the mixtape I ripped from the radio, songs cut
with bright babble for the long-haul truckers. I need you
to read between the lines, but you don’t know how.
Framed by the windscreen, we are waltz-weary
and far less lonely than the Hopper print on the diner wall.
We are hands rested six inches apart on a greasy tabletop –
Formica flecked with crumbs, this world’s neon answer
to terrazzo. We are pissing in neighbouring cubicles;
I poke my foot under the partition to make you laugh,
which you do. My world lights up, we flush in unison
and leave, opening the door onto the blue forecourt.