Autobiography

What I need today is for you to read me:
to stop writing your own notes in my columns,
to stop editorialising me,
discussing me in absentia,
like some poorly prepared school report.
I am not your gossip rag,
for you to wipe your mouth on,
to tell my story as if you own it,
behind cupped hands and shielded eyes.
My days are not pages to be dog-eared,
so you can remember where to return to.
My heart won’t stop for your bookmark consideration.
I won’t stay still for long enough to be forgotten on your bedside table.
I need you to stop reading me selectively,
like some zealot’s favourite scripture,
so you can tell yourself the story of me as you like it.
I am not a paperweight to hold your scribbles down.
I am not a wedge to keep doors open for you,
or to keep your table level.
I am not a prop for you to sit on,
or to rest your cup on.
My story is alive and still being told.
I won’t be treated as so much scrap paper.
I will not gather dust if you avoid reading me.
I will not be left in some forgotten drawer.
Read or go.
Your choice.

-o0o-

A Facebook Status for the Fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
oh Jesus, the broflakes are loose,
spare us the mansplaining, actuallies, concern feigning;
and shove it right up your caboose.

Now also available on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/charllandsberg/status/927292951910285312
https://twitter.com/charllandsberg/status/927293029983145989

-o0o-

The Difficult Magic

when you don't expect sparkle and pop
or to swell like Gandalf
or glamour like Dumbledore
when you expect to do less today
than you ever have before
when your impact is small
but the outcome is big
and you take nothing from the world
that you couldn't restore
this is the great magic
the endless bore
to love beyond measure
to wait beyond pleasure
to give beyond showing
to learn beyond knowing
to trust in your heart
forgive when it's smart
see the beauty in the noise
permit yourself the little joys

-o0o-

At the place where you left me

You say you’re back:
gone to the place where you left me,
and now you’re upset?
Finding my usual spot vacant,
as if I should sit around all day;
waiting for your ass.

Even the stones have changed their names,
but you expect me to be the same;
that same 19 year-old child,
with a wide smile,
ingénue to your violent fist,
gifting cocaine or punches.

You say you’re back:
gone to the place where you left me,
and you’ve been sobbing up a storm,
telling your friends how wronged you are.
How dare I not forgive you?
I don’t even know you.

-o0o-

Rapture

I caught a flight

on a planet named Nibiru.

I have to be at tea 

with the witches of the sky.

If Jesus wants me, 

he can wait.

Tell him, if you see him,

I was only passing by.

The world ended,

again, again, again,

waking up smiling,

with the daughters of the sea.

If Jesus had a plan,

he had years to step up.

If Jesus had a message,

he could have given it to me.

-o0o-

Friendzone

What would you have of me?

Something not-love, but tantamount?

You feel so entitled to all of me,

asking for more than my heart’s-amount?

Touching my body without permission,

bringing gifts as if I’m to let,

then wallow in weeks of sulky perdition,

when I wouldn’t pay my debt.

Time makes expectations groan,

and entitlement tends to lurk,

when love gets called the "friendzone",

and friendship turns into work.

I was your punching bag when things were tough,

your pillow when you were shattered.

What I gave was never good enough.

What I wanted never mattered.

The more I grew to health and life,

I grew useless to your desires.

Me: not content to be a cruel heart’s wife,

nor lover to bitter fires.

Not a cisgender cock for you to tuck,

not a hetero dick for you to suck,

not a cherry to pick, or a pussy to pluck,

not your butchers meat to have and fuck.

I’m sorry my love’s not up to snuff,

but it never was before.

But you don’t pay me nearly well enough,

to consider me your whore.

-o0o-

An Omen for the King

And I saw it as clear as the day

blood in the foam on the sand

three men standing laughing

over the corpse of the king of the land

I saw it with my very own eyes

the murderous friends who betrayed

a man with yellow-green eyes

and a jacket that had long since frayed

I saw it dear sir, please believe

go and tell your judges and kings

that the emperor will soon die

by the hand that bears three rings

-o0o-

Barbican Boy

Barbican boy with his arms folded:

he’s angry for having been scolded,

and now just sitting there.

Hunched over with his face scrunched up,

like a crushed polystyrene cup,

with his eyes behind his hair.

And now, my barbican one?

Do you withdraw till the day is done?

With your heart’s aimless scorn.

Portcullis shut, curtains drawn.

You’d swear I was your prosecution.

Though for all my part I know just this;

of my dark powers and magical kiss,

that could make for fine restitution.

-o0o-

The Hollywood Song

Remakes, rehashings, recycles, and sequels
TV spinoffs and the requisite prequels
Anthologies, trilogies, flop and a hit
Hollywood's constantly brimming with shit

-to the tune of "my favourite things".

Divisive?

I'm divisive, you say?

For pointing out the knife?

You're here ending my life,

and I'm the one sewing discord?

You promote hatred and violence,

and hide behind plausible deniability,

but I'm the hateful one,

because I have ears to hear and eyes to see?

Look over there,

where my friends are lying,

face down in the dirt.

And over there,

where my friends are crying,

hunched over bodies,

pulling knives from flesh.

Your knives.

But we're divisive?

For pointing that out?

We've made you feel bad?

Your ickle feelings are hurt?

You're just trying,

to have a civil conversation?

A lively debate?

You're just asking a question,

playing Devil's advocate,

pretending as if this is equal terrain.

We lay here in pain,

with your knife in our gut,

and you want to pretend the footrace is fair.

You want to pretend,

that your 'opinion' matters,

at least as much as human life?

The lives you've made unlivable?

Sure honey.

Try stabbing people physically,

and use this argument on the judge.

I bet you'll get the same reaction.

Fuck you.

-o0o-

To Charl with Love

Costume

when I was young

I loved to go out at night

I could put on my costume

and know

know that it would protect me

the worst thing was inside me

so nothing in the dark could harm me

the thing inside me

killing me slowly

killing me for wearing that costume

every day

and then one day

I stopped

I stopped wearing the costume

and the thing inside was gone

but suddenly 

that thing was inside everyone else

now it wanted to kill me

kill me for not wearing that costume

I remember the very first time

when I left the house

wearing a dress

and the thing called from other mouths

“faggot”

“tranny”

it lashed out with a fist and a boot in my rib

so those are my choices

let the thing kill me from within

for wearing a costume

or let the thing kill me from outside

for not wearing a costume

tonight I put on the costume again

wiped off my makeup
wiped off my nail varnish

took off my pretty purple shirt

and put on big boy pants

big boy walk

big boy talk

I guess tonight I'm just better

at keeping the devil I know at bay

does that make me a bad transgender person?
does that make me a coward?

I don’t know...

but I got home alive.

-o0o-

Well, I guess that's it then?

To my best friend:

You loved me till the day I came out.

The second I came out.

Then our friendship fell apart. 

For the following two years I tried.

I tried to invite you in.

I told you my pronouns.

You never used them.

You never even tried.

I asked you to go clothes shopping with me.

You said no.

You misgendered me.

You made fun of me.

For two years I put up with it.

I fought for us.

I hoped we could 'fix' our relationship.

But we had different ideas of what was broken.

I wrote thousands of words about being trans.

You didn't even try to read them.

I spoke thousands of words about being trans.

You didn't even try to hear me.

You bought into TERF bullshit.

And when I called out the TERF bullshit:

You said that I made *you* feel bad.

You said that I only see *you* as cis.

And you said *you* didn't want to be my friend anymore.

Well, I guess that's it then?

Goodbye.

-o0o-

Table

[For all the trans friends I'm surrounded by.]

Build longer,

build stronger,

my table grows.

Pass the salt, pass the bread,

scooch up.

Leave a spot for the dead,

spill a drop for the missing,

save a dish for the late,

on a welcoming plate.

My family grows.

A forest of hands,

to warm, to feed,

to heal, to comfort,

to meet the need.

How many of you there are,

that my table stretches so far.

-o0o-

The Queer

We are the strange,
the beautiful,
the queer, twisted like hempen rope.
Having seen the end of every hope,
and yet still here.
Still here through everything,
we beautiful few,
carrying our dead friends in our hearts,
carrying our duty on our backs,
and the sins of abusive fathers on our skin.
Condemned for our queer,
and yet saved by it.
Salve Regina to our queer.
Long may it live.
Long may we live,
The Beautiful.

-o0o-

Nothing Left

When I should give my all, and breathe my fire,

ripping limb from limb, bone from hip,

and herald the end like a demonic choir,

such that they cry from their sinking ship;

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

But there is nothing left of me, my dear.

-o0o-

Craft

For audio please visit HERE on Soundcloud.

We learnt the art of potions,

from the great schoolmistresses of the South,

their hair like thistledown,

a tongue like a bullwhip in an open mouth.

They taught anyone their craft,

free of charge,

if you had a talent for magic,

and a will to learn.

They taught us the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Of course the men came to burn us,

but they didn’t recognise us,

being so suspicious of their own daughters,

that many a child was murdered.

Unmarked graves,

that bore the sins of the fathers,

instead of names and dates.

Eventually we became the new teachers,

and under our tutelage,

the young ones learnt to fight back,

against the stupidity of the old men,

who held laws like babies,

and propped up their houses with the corpses of children.

We taught the young ones the right way:

to stir a pot,

to wipe a child’s snot,

to make a man leave or stay,

to cut a foetus away.

Soon our books filled every shelf,

our songs every heart.

So much so that even the old man in the pub,

hums our tunes over his beer,

while his children practice their queer,

and hone their craft,

and brew wild ideas into living potions,

that teach minds to fly,

with the queerest of notions.

-o0o-

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time:
the fairy queen sat,
upon her mushroom throne,
that grew out of the naked stone.
While she sat, eating flowers,
out of the skull of an oathbreaker.
Around her neck.
three stars were strung,
humming their radiant tune,
and shimmering as they hung.
They were named:
Alde
Misna
Ophel
And the day of the festival came,
at the doors of her kingdom,
where the humans gather,
giving their firstborn to the gods.
so their second born would be strong,
so they sang in their song.
They circled a rock,
upon which the tiny fruit would be crushed,
like grapes for the gods,
and the ghastly wine,
that stained both hands and the ground,
and made the Earth shiver at the sound.
So appalled by their cruelty,
the fairy queen,
unseelied herself,
snuffed her three suns,
snuck into the crushing stone,
and ate the little unfortunate ones,
as soon as they were thrown.
And the people panicked.
“Our children!” they cried.
“They have been stolen!”
And the people ran to their gods,
wailing,
screaming,
slashing at their skin;
praying to be avenged.
But the gods were long since dead.
And so in the years to come,
strange new folk would come out at night,
Alde from the ground,
making a mournful sound -
singing a song like moan,
that rotted flesh and snapped bone.
Misna from the very stone,
crawling on their bellies, prone,
with hands that catch,
and teeth that snatch.
Ophel from the air,
wisp-like, neither here nor there,
silent as the night,
and deadlier by far.
These children spirits came like armies,
by their hundreds,
night after night,
to steal the firstborn of the humans,
as soon as they were born,
to be raised as fae,
by elf they were amended,
by sprite they were bended,
by queen queered and splendid,
So the race of humans was ended,
and not a single tear was shed.

-o0o-

Jars

in the beginning

the stuff of souls

was kept in large jars

thousands upon thousands

stacked up in lines

and a few people

who drank from the jars

had the same soul stuff

shared between them

in the end 

they will be poured back

into the old jars

hand in hand

-o0o-

“But cisgender women and trans women are different!” Weaponised rhetoric, bad faith, and the othering of the marginalised.

CW: Transphobia, TERF rhetoric, examples of racism, sexism, homophobia, a slur.

I should start by explaining by what I mean by weaponised rhetoric, bad faith arguments, and othering. Weaponised rhetoric is a form of argument that is used to attack people. When it comes to marginalised people we often see this kind of rhetoric popping up as slurs, dogwhistles, half-truisms, etc... These are phrases which in and of themselves may (as with slurs) or may not (as with dogwhistles) be harmful when taken out of context, but they are always harmful particularly when speaking about marginalised people. Take for instance the phrase, “Asian people are good at mathematics,” or “Women are just naturally more nurturing,” or “Gay men are promiscuous.” These are weaponised statements. They confer bigotry regardless of whether they are true or not. As with “Asian people are good at mathematics.” This argument functions as a form of “Model Minority” racism, where a stereotype of a particular group of POC have been attributed with a particular characteristic. It is harmful not because it is true or because it is false, but because it carries with it so much historically abusive weight. The “Model Minority” argument is not only damaging to people of Asian descent, but also to other people of colour, against whom the rhetoric is used as a shaming tool, an exclusionary tool, an excuse to continue being racist. The same goes for, “Women are just naturally more nurturing”. This argument hurts women in many ways because it confers upon them a characteristic that (whether true or not) sets up a series of expectations. If a woman is not nurturing she’s framed as a bad woman, a not “REAL” (TM) woman. “What kind of a woman doesn’t want to be nurturing? What kind of woman doesn’t want to be a mother? What kind of woman doesn’t want a husband to take care of?” And so the rhetoric goes. It harms men who are nurturing, characterising them as “feminine and therefore weak and not ‘REAL’ (TM) men.” This concept of “REAL” (TM) is important here because that’s exactly what this kind of rhetoric does. It others marginalised people (I’ll get to othering later). I’ve written an article the gay promiscuity myth and why it’s dangerous, but it functions in precisely the same way. 

Secondly I would like to talk about arguments in bad faith. An argument in bad faith is where a person says something that is seemingly innocuous, but has a double meaning, or they intend to deceive, or they intend to excuse their agency or responsibility in a matter. A basic example of a behaving in bad faith is, “I lied to you to protect you.” Take for instance the argument, “Don’t yell at me for being a bigot, that makes you just as bad as me.” Here the statement tries to distract from the responsibility of the bigot, and transferring it to the target of the statement. Another form of argument in bad faith is where a person responds to an argument with insults (ad hominem), “I don’t care for your argument, you’re stupid.” 

Thirdly, let’s look at the term “othering”. Now what’s important about this term is that it is the primary act of every kind of bigotry. It is the function of setting up an us-vs-them situation. This is a power based relationship. When cishet people other queer people, it sets up a disparity between cishet people and queer people. It is the first step of bigotry, it leads to marginalization, it leads to formal oppression, it leads to assault, it leads to death. What’s interesting is that when marginalised people point this out, recognising the damage been done, recognising the othering, privileged people turn around and say, “Why are *you* being so divisive.” As if recognising the wound is as bad as causing it. Dogwhistles are good at this. A dogwhistle is an argument that a bigot would use so what they are saying doesn’t seem so bad. It’s ‘pitched’ in such a way that other bigots and marginalised people can hear it clearly, but they have the benefit of plausible deniability, “I didn’t say he’s a faggot, I just said he’s a bit light in the loafers/limp wristed.” “But I’m colourblind.” Anti-vaccine people often use the term “pro-vaccine safety” as a dogwhistle. An anti-semetic dogwhistle you’ll often hear used is “international bankers.” When a bigot cries they’re being “censored” or “no platformed” and then cry “freedom of speech”. You get the idea. 

This is where popular TERF talking points (cf. Every fucking TERF ever, Feminist Current, the Guardian, etc...) have been heading for a while. They don’t want to sound so openly bigoted anymore so they’re resorting to dogwhistles and subtle othering arguments. Trans women say “We are women!” Trans men say “We are men!” Trans nonbinary folk say “We are nonbinary!” And TERFs storm into the gate screaming “We don’t say trans women aren’t women anymore, but cis women and trans women are different! Cis and trans men are different. Nonbinary people don’t exist because unicorns bla bla bla” (This is probably the nicest framing of this bullshit statement I can offer you... perhaps not the unicorns part) 

Now the question you have to ask yourself here is a) Are they saying it to ‘other’ trans people? b) Are they saying to dogwhistle fellow bigots? c) Is this an argument in bad faith? And the answer is yes to all three. 

It others trans people because it fundamentally denies trans people who they really are. If trans women are women, fundamentally. Why do you have to say it? It functions as a dogwhistle in the same way allowing TERFs to speak in bigoted ways about trans people without seeming all that bigoted. And that’s what dogwhistles are designed for. A homophobic dogwhistle is still homophobic. A racist dogwhistle is still racist. A transphobic dogwhistle is still transphobic. And yes, this is an argument in bad faith, it tries to wrestle the agency of identity away from trans people. It tries to set up the “REAL” (TM) Women trope and the “REAL” (TM) Men trope – which is funny, because that is something that feminism is... um... supposed to fight in the first place? Which is why TERFs are not feminists. As an example from the TransAdvocate: 

TERF: “We want to end gender.” 

Feminist: “Oh, so we won’t use gendered pronouns anymore?” 

TERF: “No keep those.” 

Feminist: “Gendered clothing?” 

TERF: “No that’s ok.” 

Feminist: “Segregated bathrooms?” 

TERF: “No those are important.” 

Feminist: “So, we’re going to do something about the gender binary, yes? We’re going to attack the idea that gender is intrinsically linked to one’s anatomy, and we’re going to boose the visibility of trans and intersex people, who face THE MOST VIOLENT CONSEQUENCES OF SEX AND GENDER BINARIES – yes?” 

TERF: “No.” 

Feminist: “Then what are you going to do exactly? What is your plan? How are you going to accomplish this?” 

TERF: “Abolish gender.” 

Feminist: “How?” 

TERF: “Abolish it!” 

The long and short of it is: If trans women are women; if trans men are men; if trans nonbinary people are nonbinary (and they are), what is the function of cisgender people storming into the conversation saying, "But they're different!"

-o0o-

[1] Transadvocate extract: http://transadvocate.com/terfs-offer-only-hyperbole_n_12988.htm

Crop

no time for tears, no tears for time

on with work that needs to be done

the ground is wet and steaming under the sun

till the fields, work the soil

sow the seeds for newer crops

the storm is over and you have much to do

set your eyes to the rising sun

set your will for good times to come

hail the wind that carries the leaves

hail the earth that journeys my feet

hail the heartbeat alive once again

broken open and healed

a scar that runs a line to plant

no time for tears, no tears for time

on with the work that needs to be done

-o0o-

Womxnhood

my womxnhood sits in the bowl of a vast ocean

swirling about my teeth as I drink

sliding down my neck, my chest, my arms, my legs,

drinking it down, even the dregs

my womxnhood flows like a tide

to and fro, up and down

first to bathe, then to drown

passionate then fleeting.

my womxnhood is hard to grasp

I run through your fingers when you grab at me

receding into the deep

just to condense on your skin while you sleep

my womxnhood is strong and bold

and infinitely difficult for you to hold

or dismiss with some casual flick of the wrist

like a dog on a leash you can twist

my womxnhood is not chained by your binary

your biology, your flesh, your genes

I would no sooner fall to patriarchy

than trans exclusionary bigotry

my womxnhood is angry and hurt

by the words you so casually throw about

and when I scream at the flesh cut out

you tell me I'm divisive?

my womxnhood is vast and deep

dark at the bottom and frothing at the surface

infinite to all who accept it

cruel to those who reject it

while the salt of transphobia's blight

would kill everything in sight

my womxnhood is free

every tree grows from me

-o0o-

Poison

You drink it willingly,
because it tastes so good.
This is bigotry.
You drink it,
and everyone is poisoned.
You keep saying how good it is,
how others just don't understand.
But they're dead.
You've killed them.

The March of the Nots

Woman

historically

have always been defined 

by what she is not.

a woman is *not* a man

but she is a wo-man

a woman is *not* a black person

but she "may" be black woman

a woman is *not* a jewish person

but she "may" be a jewish woman

a woman is *not* lesbian person

but she "may" be a lesbian woman

a woman is *not* transgender

but she "may" be a transgender woman

a woman is *not* asexual

but she "may" be an asexual woman

a woman is *not* nonbinary

but she "may" be a nonbinary woman

add womxn to the mix

experiencing multiple intersections

of identity and marginalizations

and alt-right man-children's brains break.

womanhood is always

filled to the brim with obstacles

the attainment of womanhood

has never been automatic

unless you're profoundly

white

cisgender

heterosexual

rich

healthy

able-bodied

and neurotypical

if a womxn tells you who she is

and the world rushes in

to tell her what she's not

she's probably exactly

who she says she is.

the second she claims

her femininity as empowering

her identity as explicit

her marginalisation as history

the world rushes in 

to tell her to stop being divisive.

the second she speaks

of the way she's been marginalised

the world rushes in

to tell her that "We don't need labels!"

the second she speaks

the world is back

telling her what she's not.

-o0o-

Cisgender Privilege, a tweet poem.

Cisgender Privilege, a tweet poem.

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is saying "this is me"
and people accepting that automatically

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is saying "who I am is true"
and folks just fucking believe you

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is saying "this is my name"
and folks still treat you the same

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is your pronouns respected
and them never having to be corrected

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is having your pants ignored
not scrutinised by a perverted hoard

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is when you're simply the norm
accepted as cannon in gender and form

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is getting hopped up on cisgender vanity
and denying trans people a shred of humanity

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is you lying about our sex and our gender
and then making out as if we're the pretender

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is misgendering millions of souls
and enforcing ignorant patriarchal roles

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is ignoring our constant cries
and replacing them with more of your lies

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is kicking us when we're down
and mocking us while we drown

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is the lies you entertain so often
that send trans people to an early coffin

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is the curse of cisgender tongues
breathing forth hatred from indifferent lungs

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

privilege is turning around without care
your hands in the air, not a worry to spare,

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

tomorrow we're dead, and we're no longer there.
tomorrow we're dead, and we're no longer there.

— (((CharlLandsberg))) (@charllandsberg) March 11, 2017

Scratch

I grew tired.
Lay on my bed.
Eyes grew heavy.
Reached with my hand.
Scratched at the world.
Tore at it.
Little pearlescent bits,
Flaked of in small dreams,
Like the innards of a shell.
I saw tomorrow and dreamt.
And woke up having forgotten the  dream.
My mouth tasting fowl with foreboding.

Wheel

I am a creature of seasons,

not affected by, but made of.

In the spring I am flowers,

a lover in the wind,

whispering songs for hours,

with no thought to my reasons,

free and careless.

In the summer I am the river,

that flows with the summer storms,

that weathers the gale,

catching lightning to boil my coffee,

with melted hail.

In autumn I am the leaves,

writing my poems scattered about,

a messy room, an unwashed plate,

a single sock turned inside-out.

In winter I am a tree,

struck bare with ashen skin,

hard and unmoving,

demon of healing,

and saint of sin,

all gather at my table,

to drink of my potions.

I am not disaffected by the seasons,

they are me.

I am not affected by the turn of the wheel,

I am the wheel.

-o0o-

February

Cool summer morning,

and the storm lies on the ground,

face down,

reduced to puddles,

and the clear sky,

blue,

just relieved,
to have kicked the storm out of her bed.
For all his raging last night,
she's free of him now,
he did his job.
Now the sun rises with the sky,
and the sisters take to the day,
climbing into beauty,
while the storm dries himself off.

-o0o-

Pour Grace on my Name

Grace is when you drink at my expense,

and get drunk on my good will.

When you think we're good,

but we're not.

Grace is when I let you think it's okay,

when you hurt me,

again and again.

Grace is when I stop talking.

Because my words will become poison,

and you've become so accustomed to drinking of me,

that you'd swallow the good and the bad.

Grace is when I sweeten myself,

even though I'm dying.

Making the best of milk, 

that makes white flecks in your tea,

but you can't taste it's off yet.

Grace is when I keep opening an artery for you,

so you stay,

for my own fears of being alone,

which become more an more real each day.

Grace is an idiot.

I guess that's my new name now.

-o0o-

The Bigot is Strong Again - published on Poetry Potion

Head over to Poetry Potion to read by poem published there.

-o0o-

The Man who Knows

Be careful of the man who knows,

the one who's walked the single path,

the man who says, "this way,"

when life has taken them there,

like a dog strung along by the smell of meat.

When privilege has made him ignorant.

Convenience and wealth has led him;

down the path where the grass is dead.

He says, "see, I know."

He discounts you easily and quickly.

He doesn't ask why.

He doesn't know.

He will tell you he is smarter than you.

And finally having convinced himself,

convinced of his own superiority,

his entitlement to your body and charity,

he would rather have you die,

than finding ways of surviving.

After all...

...if the poor want to survive,

they would be rich.

-o0o-

Still Nothing...

Uninspired.

Spending time with my feet on the ground.

Hoping to grow roots.

Maybe draw something from the earth.

Nope.

Still nothing.

Making coffee.

-o0o-

Omen Sky

The moon sits so menacingly in the sky, 

looking flat across the world, 

like a god getting a good look, 

at what he's about to stomp on. 

Its like a bad omen. 

It's cold after a sweltering day,

but this wind doesn't bring relief, 

Master Moon has nothing but cruelty to whisper. 

A snap in the air that pulls your chest tight,

leaving you breathless, 

hiding indoors,

from the cruel sun's even meaner consort.

The usual dog barks are missing. 

The trucks on the highway are gone.

Even the Summer came to my window,

wrapping his long fingers around the sill, 

begging me to tell what's going on.

but I don't know.

He's cuddled up by my dogs from the cold.

Perhaps the sun will tell him tomorrow.

I asked whether he'd tell me tomorrow night,

but he's out cold.

At least my coffee is warm,

and I smirk at the moon,

he who can't come into my house.

My gates are warded from his ilk.

-o0o-

Fat Belly

my fat arms have held the dying

and the grieving

my fat lips have kissed pain away

and spoken worlds into being

my fat hips are the shelves of glory

on which champions have sat

where they called me godess

and worshipped at my bedside

my fat fingers can play piano 

better than you can speak your own name

and have stitched up wounds

better than you have caused

my fat feet have marched for equality

and have kicked in Nazi teeth

my fat belly has laughed more

than you have hated

my fat belly is your shame

my fat belly is your undoing

my fat belly is everything you are not

my fat belly is god

and you?

fuckboy?

what have you done with your miserable life?

-o0o-

Buying Happiness

"Money can't buy happiness"

says cishet person

says rich person

says white person

says man.
Oh, but you, you can.

I'll send you my banking details,

fill my coffers.

Since you have so little use of money.

Shut your mouth or share your honey.

-o0o-

Three Conversations

2010.

I met him for the first time at dinner,

with our regular group of sinners.

He was the partner of a friend's brother.

I knew this when we were introduced,

so I'm not sure what got me all seduced,

...but I was hungry and,

he was beautiful.

So beautiful in-fact,

that, 

in front of everyone,

I asked, "Are you single?"

I never quite felt so alone:

he smiled at me,

with that put-upon face that could peel bone.

2015.

I met him for the first time at a funeral.

His partner died of hiv.

Three sinners alone in a church, we,

one dead, two alive,

surrounded by a hateful hive.

We spoke to each other,

so that he didn't have to deal with the family.

When the time came,

the father ashamed,

stood up in front of the church,

and blamed us for the deceased’s death.

I smiled at the man digging into my arm,
with his fingernails.

and asked, "Are you single?"
You could hear hearts fail.

We left the service early,

and got McDonalds.

2016.

I met him for the first time at a party,

he was getting divorced.

His partner, he said, had lied to him,

pretending to be a man or a woman,

or something like that:

he spat out a transphobic slur,

with my vision beginning to blur:

"That's terrible..." I gasped,

"Is she single?"
That riled up the little shit,

his punch caught me in the forehead.
Utterly worth it.

-o0o-