[boykeats]

it’s hard writing about your gender-related emotional trauma, but you have to do it sometimes

[qpulm]

Blue (Derek Jarman, 1993)

[cosmicmania]

will you teach me how to swim? // cosmicmania

[uglyfruit]

reminders

[julykings]

gay cowboy love poem

[boykeats]

some poems i love by poets who are trans

(after god herself) by justice ameer (xe/xyr)

the fall of man was the beginning of Eve Eve casting out Adam’s name Eve discovering who she was

faggot poetics by cameron awkward-rich (he/him)

Does that make sense?

To want to own the image of the man but not the man? To bask in that memory

of what first nailed you to the dark?

gay cowboy love poem by adam b. @julykings (he/him)

                                                He’s got the bloom of desert peach inside his open mouth & a good amount of crooning to do. Kiss like a snapped guitar string. I dream of his shoulders & a full moon.

brown out shouts! by kay ulanday barrett (they/them)

and you, you like all of our ancestors before, you live it so fiercely that even when injustice sets in,

this rumbling sky houses your breath and that is better than any survival story

the moon is trans by joshua jennifer espinoza @blankslate (she/her)

You don’t get to send men to the moon anymore unless their job is to bow down before her and apologize for the sins of the earth.

treatise to the ones who scar badly by nathaniel orion @nathanielorion (he/him)

i want to be moonlight. i want to be the open mouth of summer evening, the long tongue of river slime that slithers from eden to wherever it is you lay in wet grass.

exclusively on venus by trace peterson (she/her)

Roses are born this way / violets have a lesbian streak / something about your dry sense of humor and our soft intertwined limbs / feels transcendently female

self portrait as headless john the baptist hitchhiking by c. t. salazar (he/him)

I said I wanted to worship something, even if it’s just the black

beetles in your yard crawling around hurriedly like pieces of a star trying to reassemble itself.

sometimes i wish i felt the side effects by danez smith (they/them)

knew what could happen. needed no snake. grew the fruit myself.

was the vine & the rain & the light.

ode to enclaves by chrysanthemum tran (she/they)

                  Here, we worship       the hot pot; stuff our bellies              with blessings. My auntie says—

If we’re gonna suffer,       we gotta do it over good food.

reconstructions (excerpt) by brad trumpfheller (they/them)

Your hand finally on the small of my back, without any kind of fear.

This time, I’ll be a girl & you can be anything alive.

[weltenwellen]

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “Toad”, Truro Bear and Other Adventures : Poems and Essays

[firstfullmoon]

ig: artqueerhabibi

[lifeinpoetry]

“…I feel a stupefying pressure under my skin…. I want to pierce everything and penetrate as far down as possible. I want to reach the depths of the earth. My love is there, in the place where seeds grow green and roots reach one another, and creation perpetuates itself amidst decay. It’s as if my body were a temporary and transient form of it. I want to reach its source. I want to hang my heart like a ripened fruit on all the branches of the trees.”

— Forugh Farrokhzad, from letter to Ebrahim Golestan, Another Birth and Other Poems, tr. Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée

[inkflowsnetwork]

“in the tongue of the deserts there is another Revelation sung not by Yohanan but by Eliyahu, he who now among the angels trembles and sameburns with worship, rapt, wrapped in flames like a cloth of silk, like tears fallen from a too-holy resin, golden as the blood of the bee, as the sordid honey of the fig-wasps this Revelation is sung for the lovers: it is a book to be written in kisses across the scroll of another’s skin, in only the softest of brushes, the darkest of inks, lips, eyelashes; because, as you know, to the pure everything is pure to the heart everything fruit when for far too long the hands have pined after holiness and the mouth has parched, awaiting the right prayer the right name to cry out in the small hours and find answered in dusk o lover, o ruin, o joy give the song course, give it your ears, pinched and sharp, half-hidden in such decadence of dark hair, conched shells some angel or other has picked ashore of the Black Sea o lover, o ruin, o joy bring your hands to my waist, bring your soul to my home so that I may disrobe it, wash its’ clothes, dry them at my breast where your sorrows are safe your passions, too”

—   apocalypse, a folk lay   november 9th, 2019  / /  lianna schreiber (via ragewrites)

[firstfullmoon]

thinking about this

[homoidiotic]

art by pheobe wahl

[boykeats]

poetry idea: judas meeting an angel

there’s a field of poppies at the edge beyond everything,and in it michael sitting with his cough syrup redwings and his muddied army boots and his mouthfull of thorns where the teeth should be.

you stumble up to him, damp human feet, callousedhuman hands. you have seen stars and stars and starson your way here, but none of it compares to howyou feel the ache in your neck beginning to dissipate.

michael gestures, take a seat, so you do beside him.the flowers smell like they did on earth, clean, sun-warm,but the wind here sings. you say, i didn’t think i’d beallowed to make it this far. michael smiles, his mouth

jagged yet sweet: you can go farther if you like.i know there’s at least one man in the place beyondall places who would gladly clasp your shoulders, kissyour cheek, and tell you that you were worth the pain

which must always come before redemption.

[unchildhood]

ANIS MOJGANI x ALEXANDER HARDING

‘For Those Who Can Still Ride In An Airplane For The First Time’, spoken word, uploaded on Youtube on 20 Apr. 2009;

Visible Light series (2010), photography

[lukecohoon]

REPRISE FOR THE BOY WHO COULDN’T HOLD HIS BREATH UNDERWATER

let’s set the scene: it’s the summer of sweat & sin, grinding dirt into pearls on the july sidewalk. you’re too old to be a young God anymore but that never stopped you. so it’s summer, so it’s hot, so you saw what you loved and dived straight in. imagine, your blue eyes closed, hair splayed out, body flying like an arrow. then you realise – nobody has filled that pool in years. that boy hadn’t been anything less than shallow for too long now. so it’s summer, so you have a concussion, missing a front tooth, left a little blood on the cracked tile. here’s the thing; you don’t learn to swim just because your head’s underwater. if there’s a word for drowning in a person, his name wasn’t the right one. so it’s summer, so everything is burning, your freckles – your skin – your chapped lips – so it’s summer, so you healed, took a trip to the dentist. you don’t visit the pool anymore. some things just don’t deserve the breath you give them.

[sunbathe]

https://www.instagram.com/p/BHhlJ3VBC4f/