Enemy Of The State


Find Someone
Cool Kids
Enemy Of The State
Some Days
The Boy Is A Poem
About That Time, Again
The Queen Is Alive (Sorry Morrissey)



I’m aching for an era I crawled through,
to wear the troubles I’d wear the knees out of,
and shift out of dystopia,
sail straight from unopeia,
because now is numb.

Now now,
bow down bitches,
so you can see eye to eye with my spirits.

If I wasn’t such a control freak,
I’d get high out of my mind.
If I could drive,
I’d be out of here,
but walking isn’t even an option,
because I’ve worn through the soles of my soul,
and also my shoes.

Jesus knows,
because we talk all the time,
and we sit at the bar of life,
him with holes in his hands,
me with holes in my heart.
The boy knows that I’ve tried.
I think he’s sick of me, too.

Believe me,
I’d like to be a better girl,
a better man,
a better anything.
Arachnophobia aside,
I’ll be better with eight legs,
if I only have the chance.

I promise you,
all I want is tomorrow,
and for the sustainment of suspense.
Perhaps tomorrow could be new.


Find Someone

I don’t mean to alarm you,
but you were the alarm that awoke my deepest, sleeping desires.

I’m whole in your hands,
whether you want to hold me, or not.

I know you don’t love me.
I love that you don’t love me,
because I want you to have this,
with a person who can show you all that my heart knows.

Find Someone.

Their eyelashes will cause earthquakes,
their lips, devastating to your soul,
but the kindest dependency you’ve ever felt,
will attack your will.

I’m sure you’ll know, as I did with you.


Cool Kids

You might think you’re cool, kid,
but I swear to you,
I’m cooler,
and not just because I can’t afford heating.
It would be a game,
if we still had our baby bones,
and your adult bones weren’t insured.
You can check out
of the horrific hotel I’ve lived my life in,
and head back to a country mansion,
but I’m like the wallpaper,
and stuck in place.


Enemy Of The State

You’re right, it isn’t my country,
despite swapping states,
like I used to swap Pokémon cards,
and completing the assimilation game,
without cheat codes.

“Uncertainty is excellent,
all is well.”
Says ageing, expat, pop star scum.

I’ve never stolen anything,
but the hearts of a few,
and even then,
I returned them, with interest.
I still can’t shop without being watched,
I’m hoping my private reality show is cancelled, soon.

He’s right, this isn’t my country ,
despite all I’ve given.
I wanted to be just like you, once,
or at least the you on sale in gift shops.
Tea, Oxbridge pleasantries,
it isn’t real,
and now, neither am I,
despite the very real passport in my possession,
that is happy to claim me as one of your own.

I only want to own myself,
and walk the streets,
hopeful, as you do.

I do not go where I am not allowed,
I’ve never taken life,
but I hope to give it.
All I take is what I earn,
and I’m open to sharing.

“Imaginary independence is excellent,
all is well.”
Says banker of the people, yet peoplesceptic scum.

They’re right, this was never my country.
I am too changed for my old home,
and never enough for my new home.
This is not what I hoped to leave,
for the next me,
who is refusing to enter,
for fear she will be forced to leave,
or worse, forced to stay, unwanted.

Go home?
I will, if you’ll just let me pass.
It’s just up the street,
I’ve got a garden, with poppies,
not even just to assimilate,
and my Abuela will wonder where I’ve got to,
whether I address her in English or not.

I know, this isn’t my country.
Although, I have to ask,
why is my word only as good as the language it comes in?

“I don’t know what I ever did wrong,
nothing is well.”
Says the one the rags and rabble call scum,
but she is something to somebody,
I am something to somebody,
my only crime was being brown.


Some Days

Some days, I’m a girl.
Some days, I’m a god.
Some days, I am crushed.
Some days, I’m the crush.
It all depends on how the sun looks at me,
as it crashes across the covers.
With a face I couldn’t ever dream up,
and a voice that sends a storm to my shore.
It all depends on how the sun looks at me,
as it crashes across the covers,
to say “Good Morning.”.


The Boy Is A Poem

Full of feathers, thoughts.
I sink back into adventure.
Please be patient,
because I’m a minefield of mistakes,
and I need something gentle.
At last, I sleep.

You’re so deep.
Tripping and falling as you struggle to find me,
but I believe you when you say,
you’ll be right back.
With arm bands and a sea of sense.

Murky waters in which I will end.
I struggle harder to find you,
Two syllables and I’m back.
I found us both,
right where you said we’d be.
You don’t even complain.
You get how my mind works.

Unwind your name,
two syllables,
no more time to waste,
The breath on my neck,
two hands on my waist.

Your name,
two syllables,
your way with women,
I’ve loved you many times,
my unusual poem.



I’m frozen by my own indecision,
all that moves are my shaking hands.

Both of us,
my pride and me,
singing a silent melody on the floor.

Nobody listens these days.
Nobody hears a single thing,
and I’m glad.

It means I could stand on top of the pyramid,
scream my feelings,
and only you would hear me,
and we’d hold hands,
under only the eyes of the Gods.

Both of us,
my pride and me,
singing a silent melody on the floor.

Your innocent smile tells me
that I’ll never be alone,
but the bitch in my mind tells me,
I don’t deserve your company.

Maybe when spring arrives,
we can start again,
I’ll be brave.

Both of us,
my pride and me,
singing a silent melody on the floor.

Do you hear us?



I’m locked lamenting in our living room,
hoping she won’t sigh at me,
that girl.

I haven’t done a thing,
not since the last time I could remember.

Do you understand?

I can’t quite remember why,
but I’ll shrug and sit.

Then I’m gone.

I feel a blanket,
it’s wrong.

I wish I knew why.

Here I am,

It’s so cold,
old bones on the move,
though I’m still.

Again, I’m gone.

I feel chirpy,
like the birds I’ve avoided,
not by choice,
imprisoned in a cell that has the nerve to be comfortable.

I wonder if someone misses me.

I wonder if I miss someone.

There used to be somebody.

Perched on the arm of my chair,
if I think for days,
I see his face,
but it’s different each time.

It doesn’t matter,
for just like me,
he is gone.

So, why won’t they let me go?


About That Time, Again

Oh, honey,
act your age,
and tell me that you love me,
before we’re both dead.

You say you’ve got a novel in you,
so write your world on me.
Take me out,
because your anxious stares go nowhere,
but I know the night’s sky will have you under her spell,
in an instant.

I won’t be afraid of what’s in your heart,
if you’re unafraid of what lays under lace.
Run up the stairs,
then slide down the bannister,
I would say play doctor,
but we don’t need the stress of an NHS schedule.

You say you’ve achieved nothing,
and I’m impressed but depressed,
by your apathy.
I can see the stars in your soul,
even when you can’t.

I just want to be in love,
and we’re old enough to be sensible,
and old enough to choose to be stupid.

Be sensible with me.
It’s about that time.
Be stupid with me.
It’s about that time.
Be with me.
It’s about that time, again.


The Queen Is Alive (Sorry Morrissey)

The Queen is alive (Sorry Morrissey),
but her country is dead.
Dead risen by distracted,
we shuffle,
so desperate for knowledgeable food,
but unable to swallow.
The same drone delivered with the same Sunday papers.
People are not worth a mention.
We may as well be dead,
because our hearts greet the ground,
rotten and rancid,
fighting over dirt.
Do you hear the world breathing,
without us?


© Jennifer Juan 2016