Shitlib Centos (cutup of bath magg 10)
1. To have gender is hard,
too sweet for this century.
To not have gender
smells like a dayold sweatshirt.
2. Chopping jade chives on the kitchen block,
looking down at the sanitary towel suspended
between my knees. Cinnabar under my toes
on the advice of my cognitive therapy group.
3. The machine is armed and glittering,
tentacular black limbs can defy
the limitations of lockdown.
When the smallest poem flickers
something about accessing one's vulnerability,
silent horses with arthritic pain.
When you expose the power of nonconformity
equally acceptable to Westerners,
the makers of our machines,
middleaged poets active on twitter
4. The surface of whatever he has not
healed became the shape of his damage. For
this, the word perhaps is 'trans'.
It felt American the way I learned it from
your hyperlink on Sunday.
5. I sifted sand in Florence & thought
of my lover laughing.
Here, an entire plate of figs.
Here, naked in a blue pool.
Here, dying on the surface of the Mediterranean.
In my head I played a game with
the waves called Weapon of Choice.
6. I want to french you like
a queer multilingual poet passionate about
decolonisation and diversity in scholarship
and the arts. Curled bloodfox tongue as
agent provocateur.
7. I was busy smearing a tonne of
sexrelated waste across the press, the
body that I longed for skinny and blonde.
I wonder if they knew what imagery can do
to a heart.
8. Every month I give birth to infinite
timelines, alternatives, dimensions on the
advice of my cognitive therapy group.
Every month I give birth to infinite
timelines, alternatives, dimensions
- if the truth be told, I'm so boring to me.
9. In your dream, every room is like this;
everyone you love has abandoned you.
In life, often there is someone then that
someone is dead.
10.Howling the hymns of the new midnight
liberation army, we'll kill every fascist we see.
I don't bother searching for warcrimes, atrocities.
11. The ochre curtain shudders in
the updraft, burnt wings like the inside
of an apricot. Claude Lorrain clouds incapable
of haloes. It's a violent world.
Even the shrink is licking her lips,
purplemouth.
12. I admit I am here for sex but
am astonished that I love myself too,
like a crop of disobedient milkweed.
Women can make the same sound
as a wolf and do
under the glint of the faggot moon,
excited by my fear of fucking
with only the trees listening.