Jacob Brown

Winner - 2016

"I’M A LIVING, BREATHING CLICHÉ FOR WRITING THIS, BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT POETRY MEANS TO ME." 

"To say it means anything would imply that I write poetry to express meaning, or that poetry is inherently meaningful. I don’t know if I want to give poetry that much credit. Plays and novels are so bound by scary things like character, motivation and narrative propulsion. We are experiencing stories about ‘real’ people, so their worlds need to make sense if we want them to be satisfying. I don’t read poems to engage in a world that makes sense, or even to be satisfied. I read poems to see new angles and feel sloppy, unmitigated feelings through language alone. If a poem is successful, it will make me feel multiple feelings at once and leave me a bit pleasantly confused, like when I shiver in a hot shower. I don’t know why that happens, but it’s pretty exhilarating when it does."

Birthday Party

The teenage weasels that just arrived are stealing your attention.

I am waiting for their small talk to drip away
so we can leave to get more wine alone.

Here’s what will happen:

all that glitters will not be gold
but NEW WORLD red
I will taste your laughter
and suffocate it with my tongue,
a thick, boysenberry gun
shooting slow bullets into your bloodstream.
My face will flush emoji-sweater-pink
my wrist will be cocked and resting on your shoulder
just to prove how self-assured I am
you’ll rub my dick and you’ll only love men
or at least tell me repeatedly
“this is all a bit much, man.”

It doesn't happen though.

I pull clay out of my throat and try to be clear with you
but you never understand me.

It's like pissing in a violin.
We continue to make dehydrated noise.

The green circle by your name palpitates
in lethargic bursts
the next day.

Unemployed

I found Jesus in the fruit and vege drawer.

He was tucked behind a shrivelling apple

and covered in grime from his last resting place.

I took him into the sun and wiped him clean on the lawn.

I made a ring of daisy chains around his little legs

and sat with him for a quiet minute or two

then the wind came and threw him under a rusting bike.

At night, I went outside to check he was still there,

and sure enough he was, dripping weeds and worms.

My wee Messiah.

My phone vibrates with your name again.

Shut up.

I'm far too busy to make plans.