INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING LTD

 

Django Wylie is a writer and an English teacher, currently based in Kerala. He is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at Goldsmiths, and the poetry workshop at UC Berkeley. Django is a previous winner of the Yeovil Literary Prize. New and Selected Heartbreaks is his first collection of poetry.

 

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

34 pages

 

£6.00+ P&P UK

 

ISBN 978-1-912876-10-5

 

PUB: 13/05/2019

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

New and Selected

Heartbreaks

 

Django Wylie

 

 

‘New and Selected Heartbreaks’ is an elegiac, yet darkly humorous, collection of poems about love, life and loss. Comprising reflections on failed relationships, and meditations on the possibilities of missed romantic opportunities, the collection deals with the damning and redemptive aspects of love. Written while in the back of cabs, on the tube, in cafés and bars, and while wandering the streets, the poems affirm that sometimes the loneliest place we can be is in love.

 

work

for G.

23/12/15

london, uk

overcast

 

Work is a Tippex for the mind,

a petty form of repeated suicide

before a sad weekend spent

trying to out-scowl the rain.

 

In a restaurant, you stare dully

at your expensive eggs and I

mindlessly contemplate the

waitress’ over-worn thighs.

 

With chilli fingers, the morning rubs

my tired eyes, and in the hoop of

your earrings, lies an infinite

recurrence of trudging weeks.

 

I want to buy plants with you

and watch them grow. I want

to be cradled by the warm

indifference of tonight’s wet palm,

 

I want to clean your u-bend

with my tongue. Though I’m not

box-fresh, I’m barely used –

there’ll be no more yawns

 

Of compromise and complacency,

recycled fingers tapping

aimlessly, waiting for the

only inevitable escape

 

File >>> Save Me    

 

But step outside, and it’s the same air.

Your phone bleats, idly reminding you

of nothing else anywhere, and I

awake to my mechanical sleep.

 

 

blocked

for M.

13/01/17

london, uk

overcast

 

Hunted by the lovely, we spent

our last evening cataloguing

the various types of steam.

 

You pondered: if a crane is

modelled on a giraffe, then

what makes a crane a crane?

 

In my pants, I said:

my emotions are stored in

a place I have never been.

 

Like tropical storms, our hangovers

were of such enormity,

we began naming them.

 

You said: there are currently

more table-tennis restaurants

in London than I can find

reasons to live.

 

Wearing my melancholy

like the wrong size of armour,

I have spent 27 years running

late for nothing in particular.

 

blocked

for M.

13/01/17

london, uk

overcast

 

Hunted by the lovely, we spent

our last evening cataloguing

the various types of steam.

 

You pondered: if a crane is

modelled on a giraffe, then

what makes a crane a crane?

 

In my pants, I said:

my emotions are stored in

a place I have never been.

 

Like tropical storms, our hangovers

were of such enormity,

we began naming them.

 

You said: there are currently

more table-tennis restaurants

in London than I can find

reasons to live.

 

Wearing my melancholy

like the wrong size of armour,

I have spent 27 years running

late for nothing in particular.

 

 

san francisco with emily

for K + S.

16/04/11

berkeley, ca

clear skies; starry.

 

We were in a bar when the lines

from scans of Emily Dickinson

pages passed confusedly through

my brain. I tried to chat you up

by waving my Pabst Blue Ribbon

and referencing the hour of lead.

 

Perhaps the kinship of death and

sex was never more apparent

than in the ironic use of

an abstaining teetotaller’s words

by a deliriously drunk

English major, trying to get

you into his ample single

bed.

 

But I will take you home tonight

to make up for a felt absence,

and I will take you home tonight

— and we must dash — to make up for

the space between us, because I

am not afraid of death, I’m just

afraid of all that comes before.

 

Sorry for my slurry meter,

sorry, Emily, for using you like

this. In the Mission District with

one objective, so callously

male, so callously iambic,

so showy-offy, insincere.

 

 

And I’m nobody, who are you?

I guess you’re a nobody too,

nobody left in this nowhere bar

with useless quotes, aphorisms,

and everything you thought you knew,

but lacking, still, the belief there’s

a future beyond the next beer,

the next taxi, the next intimacy —

 

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