Jodie; or, How to Be a LondonerBy Sydney Brooman
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Jodie likes her boy-men Elgin-born[1]
she rides Greyhounds through farm graveyards[2] to find Stratfordites in Bieber jeans[3] smokes clove cigarettes under Springbank trees[4] and writes baby poetry while Mustangs[5] choke frosh meat in the Woodland leaves[6] atop Victoria dead[7] Dutton Dolls seek Labatt Bucks[8] to fuck behind Maitland Hall[9] the girls fall home to bed with violet cheeks and violent dreams of horses burning in the streets[10] she’ll down your dollar beers[11] and spend your student loans on Solid Gold[12] likes it when his purple peacoat reeks like the Ceeps[13] and when he says he only loves her on her knees near Dundas street she strips to Flight of the Bumblebee [14] and he whispers the Thames will wash you clean.[15] [1] Lump Elgin County, Middlesex County, and London together. Do not bother with differentiation. [2] Stop in Woodstock to puke in a cornfield. [3]When in Stratford, Ontario, you must (in order): See a play; take a selfie with Justin Bieber’s dad; complain about your privilege. [4] Springbank Park in the west end of London is a little out of the way. Look at pictures of it instead. [5] Mustang: Western University’s mascot. Bring a rape whistle to Orientation. [6] Visit Woodland Cemetery, across the street from Springbank Park. Look at nothing but baby deer. [7] Referring to the 1881 Victoria Steamboat disaster in London. Only ever call it “Our Titanic.” [8] Your cousin probably lives in Dutton, a small town in Elgin-Middlesex. You know, the one whose fiancé works at the Labatt brewery downtown? [9] A residence at Western University. Pay thirteen grand a year so Chad in third year can tell you that your tits are better than his sisters’. [10] Western Mustangs: An extraordinary distrust of institutions starts here. [11] Pay one dollar for a beer at Jack’s. Spend the night watching your drink (just in case). [12] A strip club on Dundas Street. After you’ve sold your winter boots to buy text books, sell your body, too. [13] Weep in the bathroom of London’s oldest bar. [14] The Market Tower speakers on the corner of Richmond and Dundas play classical hits for all your musical needs. [15] The Thames River is your dumping ground. re: cam showBy Sydney Brooman
hey there sexy little Thursday
where are you hiding your daddy’s teeth? suck my toenails and tell me i’m your thick pig hot rock magic box say it slower like you’re choking on a baby brush my wife doesn’t like when we play operation pack your panties with my armpit hair stick those kisses way up in that tiny eyelash wish oh boy oh honey oh fucking God, Jesus Christ what i would do to those limp blue lips. VegaBy Sydney Brooman
tuesday afternoon keeps his work boots on
lets my bulldog kiss him on the mouth and when i move to slip off my blush pink blouse he laughs and says no, no i just wanna hit you-- if that's ok sure, i say i’m propped up on Nana’s salmon duvet and he loves me buckle-side up fuck that crying is hot the galaxies bloom black and Western purple up to my shoulders he’s gotta go-- he left his little brother with a neighbour and i think about how people adopt stars (but not really) MagicBy Sydney Brooman
It doesn’t stop itching because
oatmeal baths don’t do wonders for wanting to die but i guess chicken pox leaves scars too and is just as contagious does your breath feel the same going in? marks on plaster drawn without rulers we used the Crayola colours no one wanted and i’m pretty sure dandelion yellow lost us the rental security deposit mr. clean erasers do the trick well but only later was it clear that the magic is only chemical burning nothing really leaves this world for good unless you feel it hurt on the way out. Scratched CDSydney Brooman
I often think about how painful it must have been
for my mother to give birth to a scratched CD She barely spoke English but didn't need it much since women like us need not open our mouths so long as we open our legs for the sweaty hands of the evening air that whistles through the banks downtown i often think about the irony that two toddlers in their twenties building homes up on crescendos could conceive a writer and a stutterer in the same daughter Maybe “With or Without You” whirling in a yellow Walkman shared my pillow and maybe my mind minced the With to keep me from thinking too early that things get to go your way and I've never been the kind of girl to remember something told to me once so maybe repetition’s been the God that stops me from from stops me stops me from stops shows me how not to be blind The real laugh erupts when real CD's skip but everyone knows you can't stutter while you sing and it's funny because nothing's safe when you forget the sound of your voice and after the speech impediment Russian roulette I was given a name filled with S's and B's sounds that clung to the edge of my tongue and decided that I didn't buy their copyright quick enough and it's funny because I came scratched in the package and nobody quite got what they paid for I often think about how off rhythm I'd be without the beatbox soundtrack that pops in for a visit on tired nights and presentations and when you flip through a thesaurus with a gun to your head to replace what you cannot say eventually you come to know language most intimately and I'm not the first every 8AM drive to work but you keep me in your glove box for the nostalgia and you don't really mind that there's a scratch through “With or Without You” because you've only ever heard it that way in your car and you almost prefer that version better. Sydney Brooman is a poet and fiction writer from London, Ontario. Their work has been published in Occasus, The Gateway Review, River River Journal, Coffin Bell, and The Iconoclast Collective. They are the creator of the fiction podcast Memoriam and of the slam poetry publication SNAPS. They served as Western University’s Student-Writer-in-Residence from 2017-2018. They also wrote that story you really like. No, not that one—the other one.
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