Three Poems by Giacomo


here is a twitter thread about the books i’ve been reading:

i am 27 & i have been trained to feel more accomplished when i have notifications on my phone than when i do absolutely anything else.

i only seem to move places when my phone has red battery
& i can’t find a plug.

i spend more time wanting strangers on the internet to love me
than i spend time doing anything that i’d include on my dating profile bio.

i go to cafes and buy coffee even though it tastes very bad
& the coffee at home tastes good and costs me less money.

just so i can sit quietly,

to read my phone with a book open on my lap,
or on the table,
or on the other chair — face down.

when i am at home i sit on my phone too,
with all my books closed in my bookcase
& i text new friends about how

i love to read.

when i am 28 i will still want strangers to love me through the internet
(vomiting their little white numbers on red balloons across my screen).

today a parcel arrived with a book from america
i hope the author retweets my photo.

Can I hold your hand when it’s dark?

If i promise to like all of your Facebook statuses and if i promise to favourite all of your tweets and maybe even share the ones with your face on Facebook and to retweet your opinion and if i promise to double tap tap on all of your Instagram photos, even the ones you post with your friends while you’re drunk that you’ll only end up deleting over brunch with different friends and if i promise never to follow any of those other friends so that you always have more friends than they do and if i fav your mixtapes on Soundcloud and if i promise to comment on your posts with trending hashtags so you don’t have to and if i promise to give you 5 stars on eBay and buy your clothes off Depop and put you in my top 6 on Myspace and if i promise promise promise promise to never say hello to you in public, to look you in the eyes or to turn my body as we pass; will you acknowledge me when we’re alone?

I tap tap you

When I double tap on your face
I imagine my thumb
pressing your nose.

I think more people would
follow you if you let me push
your nose through your face.

People follow ugliness.

Like Tuna, the dog.
Who is followed
by 1.9M people.

I would love you,
you would breathe through your mouth.

Please let me push my thumb
through the back of your skull.

Two Poems by Giacomo


until there was no more flesh to grip

We drag barbed hooked happiness through rock pools blossoming red coral sharpness,

a hard blue choking back blood freezing razor ribbons held tight between held hands.

Falling against wet fingers, ripping soft palms.

Our eyes taste bone’s whiteness before the scab.

1000 year’s marbled warmth unloved against fragile fists.

Bent toothed knuckles cracking tear ducts; pooling hot love smeared.

My mouth screamed throated sobs and from your pockets handfuls of my hair

still wet from the shower.

Bloodshot black eyes bruised by heavy kisses to bandage neglect of when you needed flesh to grip

and I was sheeted flint cracking from the weight of wet breath.

You clear clouded eyes with a rolled sock from our floor and through the hole in your body,

a new space that is unchanged except for the cavity of each point with your shape.

We rip a square of skin from the soft lined flesh under our eyes.

I fold you delicately to place in the damp under tongue and taste you with every kiss.

In dark rooms new loves hold my bones under your skin and my hands end with your fingertips.

We fall hard rocks crashing from white foam and bite down fierce misplaced lust cracking shards.

You are,

long after I’m bleached and picked clean by passersby.

My blood is clean but I won’t ask you to drink it

I hate that if I let myself bleed out I could never fill a condom.

I hate that If I stood there pulling open my veins
falling out into the opening
the latex would stretch to hold all of me.

That when I was empty the condom would be
a heavy hanging fruit with space between
the rib and the red and I hate that.

I would give my fruit to you and the sun
would shine through our bodies but my red
glow would be missing.

From above I’d watch you walk away
the rubber rubbing thin on the asphalt.

An iron trail behind you until the condom hung
empty from your hand and I am
a weightless stain on the floor.

The rain would wash the red turned
brown off the street and I hate that.

I hate that I poured myself stainless across you.

I hate that you never felt me draining out
as you walked beneath my shadow.


Follow Giacomo on Twitter