how i have tolerated any & all of me / questions foment in the garbage chute of my mind / bloat out to a sea thick with stagnant unanswerability / in winter, i pinky swear, my lies set with the sun at three forty seven pm / i keep my fingers crossed behind my back & my mother’s cup beside my bed in case of thirsty dreams / if i could, these are the two things i would change about myself: 1) the four hubcaps of my apocalypse and, 2) the intermittent indicator light of who i am / i lack softness / i lack the other side of my own coin minted sixty years ago & somehow still in circulation / am i really the kiln dried log that crushes the first flames hatching from under the kindling? / or am i the bi-polar bear in faux fur & matching ice cap who can’t see the sleet for the snow? / if you answered yes to either or both of these, you may go into the draw to win an air fryer / what i’m saying is, i’m trying to be less / i’m trying to turn my jumper inside out to conceal the worst of the cable & purl of me / i got onto a magician—but he was too busy to saw me in half / i tried to evaporate / wrapped myself in cling film / sweat limped like a slow loading task bar along the tracks of the soft stretched plastic of my shame / when i peeled it off, i was still there / the same damp towel of my past / still draped on the same cold radiator of my future / i peruse the aldi catalogue searching for something that looks like beauty / my shopping bags tear under the weight of the rapeseed oil & processed foods that are killing us all / in my vision of a future where money no longer matters, tesco shelves are heaving with cans of my self loathing / i sell each can for $99.99 / i can make more money from hate than i can from love / what has happened to the world? / the sun has stage iv melanoma / & my mother’s hydrangeas are osteoporotic complicated by advanced dementia, while i incant diabetic prayers under an asthmatic moon / in the dark forest of my asylum there are foxes on the periphery / my mother throws them the deep fried batter from the cod she eats on fridays / dear lord, the warning light on my toxic positivity tank is flashing / i want ketogenic honesty & gingerbread lattes to taste of world peace / i want badgers to cross the road without dying & the farmed deer to pick the lock & run for the hills / i want to run with them / i am nauseous from a diet rich in exclamation marks & selfies / your lunch does not look amazing / how thrilled / humbled / & grateful can any of us really be? / i have come to hate your success / see this face? / *poet points at own face* / i can’t look at it anymore.
Ali Whitelock is a Scottish poet and writer living out west in an old church with her French chain-smoking husband. She’s been referred to as ‘Billy Connolly’s comedy love child’ and ‘Charles Bukowski with a Glaswegian accent’. Her poetry has been described as a standup comedy night and therapy session all at once. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart and Best of The Net and has been published in mags and journals around the world. She has published three full-length collections, & my heart crumples like a coke can, the lactic acid in the calves of your despair (shortlisted for the Australian Literature Society Gold Medal in 2021) and a brief letter to the sea about a couple of things. Her memoir Poking seaweed with a stick & running away from the smell was published in Australia and the UK to critical acclaim. You can find Ali on Substack.