Poetry by Sydney McNeill

​binge

november is for letting juice trickle softly down your chin and onto your pyjamas, not bothering your sleeves with wiping it away. house awry with ammonia and depressive interludes, i count the shoes in the entryway. the beautiful bandaid we plastered over the year is holding pretty well, albeit bulging crimson. two eyes deep in liquid crystals toying with light, i’m drunk on imaginary problems. i awake the same each morning, dream of existing anew in clean breaks and total silence (in a different body / in no body at all).




please stay out of the water. there is an alligator,

reads the sign.

olaf has passed away in sweden while a white-headed capuchin switches a water fountain on and off for amusement. 86 hours up the continent, your band breaks up in red deer.  you all hang out separately at the mall, doing different things for different reasons. thomas isn’t getting on an airplane. you almost wear your can’t wait to die shirt to dinner. i jaunt through life like time isn’t chronological. mom can’t say sorry.

we all ask ourselves if we’re bad people, as if it’s a yes or no question.

Bio: sydney mcneill is a canadian poet who likes plants and bees a lot. send her your art at sea foam mag and keep up with her here.

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