counterfeit ticket

in the carpark earlier
we drove slowly, stealthily
watchful
past spots taken
looking for a space
round smooth cement
ceilings and cement smooth floors
we circled
square boxes
in neat rows of space
and negated space and the mediated place
- all taken
under rectangles
of fluorescent bright light
we stopped
to wait for the used
the reused and the vacated place
and thought
to not: be or not be
but change shape.

stop or I

when you're finished in the kitchen it
should like
like you
were never there.
don't think that i'll admire it.
your dishes seeping in the sink
spaghettios
stuck to the floor
dried fried fat
dripped from a pan
and bruised hips
from open cupboard doors
as they bang shut behind you.

but even if i thought
to grab a cloth
i could not
clean up your mess or hide
it, cover it.
what's been done
can never be undone
i know that's why you do it.

tickle-fucker

he is not a You to me. No-I
was there when he scorched
my skin. How is it that tortured
laughter blinds him?
And deafens us.
But then drunk lips are dumb
selective ears - forgetful?
Though You were there You did not see
that Invasion
Didn't save me.
But then he is You and you are he.
How shrewd you are to force her into laughter
you're not there after
to hear her sober shrieking
as she's slowly swinging
over a sulphur fire.

^

Biography

Vanessa D'Alton is 23 and lives in Dublin. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories and has no previously published works.