smiff-spike

now at @smiff-spike

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Poem for, Smiff-Spike Danger

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i want to put the childhood down already., Smiff-Spike Danger

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Poem written four days after my grandfather died and one day before I found out, Smiff-Spike Danger

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most trans people i know have more than one name, and i don’t mean how you think, not the choke chain of the past always about to run out of slack,

but the litany of names. the drunken abandon we can’t help but be swept up in. choice is not a thing you pay much attention to when you have it in abundance;

changing your name is a very specific freedom, the loudest autonomy, i am in charge of myself. it says so on my driving license, my credit card, my diploma, you drag me outcast and away, over and over into the dark, and i breadcrumb out my paper trail every time.

this the name my parents would’ve chosen had they been better fortune tellers, this the name my best friend thought fit, this the first i gave a starbucks barista, this the first that fell off my tongue easier than breath, this name means strength, this name means resilience, this the first name i chose purely for the joy of its sound. my initials spell alive, spell you cannot beat me, spell i am triumphant i am holy i am here, spell there will always somewhere be a child in a bright room with a baby names book rediscovering what beginning is.

i will name myself every synonym for glory language has to offer me. each syllable a stone in this path, slowly but surely winding back to the sunlight.

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what good has fire ever done anyone anyway

dying but not staying dead death that doesn’t stick nothing miraculous in this

just some bird eating you and then you wake up whole again and then the bird again and the eating the waking the eating the waking the bird the bird the bird

imagine not having to die to get some rest

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i started a new blog for my poetry! both new and old poems queued up! don’t reblog with this addition thank you!

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ok i was the last anon who asked if you wrote the fairy tale poem and I realized after scrolling through your blog a bit that that was a stupid question. My follow up to that is that I showed your poem to my professor (class on german/european fairy tales at uiuc) with credit out of excitement and she said she wanted to use it in her course next semester, since it touches on a lot of the themes of the class. would you be cool with that or no? I can tell her if no.

!!!!! i would be SO cool with that!!! please link here as credit but omg yes of course

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on being raised on fairy tales in which you are the monster // a. m. h.

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yeep.   I think this might be the author’s Instagram?

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@marithlizard nope! i do not have a poetry instagram

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sure this can be a metaphor

three AM and just below my window a police van is sitting engine running been there twenty five minutes engine running for twenty fives minutes right under my window i cannot tune it out the rumbling the humming the knowledge they are there and the engine is spewing out fumes and they are not moving the growling the buzzing i hear it over everything i put on wish you were here the synths and guitars close enough i think but no still i hear it can’t not hear it the droning the snarling creeping in creeping over they are there they are there they are there right there below my window the whirring the thrumming three twenty AM a police van is sitting just below my window engine running engine running engine droning over everything i can’t think i want to put a brick through their windshield in my bones the growling all there is three thirty am can’t not hear it can’t tune it out

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i would like to Cope With Things by writing poetry but whenever i try this is all i can get. is this coping?

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image is of a justified run-on sentence with no punctuation, in all caps. image text:

i want to scream and scream and scream until something cracks until everything shatters have i said that yet i’ve said it all before how many times i want to scream stuck on repeat echoing no one’s listening fuck fuck fuck i want to scream it never stops it never stops no escape no respite it lives inside me it’s in my house it follows me around eats all my things nothing out its reach i want to scream i want to scream i want to run put a brick through a window set a fire lie facedown in the road and i buy bread from tesco i go to work i want to scream i show the inspector my train ticket i want to scream i pay rent i want to scream this can’t go on this can’t be forever this isn’t sustainable but it doesn’t stop doesn’t end no end in sight i want to scream i want to shriek and sob and rend my clothes stop traffic set a bomb something has to break something is going to break i want to scream fuck why’s it got to be me i want to scream i want to scream i want to scream

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POEM FOR EVERYONE WHO DISMISSED MY GENDER OR MY QUEERNESS OR MY STRUGGLING OR MY PAIN OR MY JOY OR ANY PART OF ME AT ALL

there is a house, not lavish or elaborate or any bigger than i need, a fireplace and a roaring fire, large windows sunlight streams through, piles of books, growing things in the garden, growing things on the windowsills, comfortable chairs, a thick soft rug the shape of the moon, space for impromptu dancing, full kitchen cupboards, safest place, warm and comfortable and comforting

i will not tell you where it is

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my body, trophy room of scars given life, every place the wolf bit me and i kept moving, bit back, this art gallery of wounds i should not have survived, yet did. nothing more healing than stubborn determination.

excerpt from transcript of wolf howling at moon, a. m. h.

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inflammable

firewood, while being carefully arranged into the archetypal pyramid, says actually i was thinking maybe we could get dinner? maybe we could go to that new italian place, wear our good shirts, make a whole evening of it, leave the matches at home?

maybe, hey? maybe we throw the matches out. maybe we take all the matches and the lighters and the exposed electric wires and we pile them in the car, drive out to the coast and throw them in the sea.

firewood says i get i’m not good for much now, what with how you cut through my spine and i died and left to my own devices, all i’ll do is rot, but actually, i think i want to rot? actually, considering the chainsaw, i don’t want to light your way or warm your bones,

actually, when a tree falls in a forest while a chainsaw shouts timber it does make a sound, but you can never hear it, what with the chainsaw,

and actually, i’m sick of my raging grief being drowned out by your triumphant roar. i was thinking, maybe i could get dinner, and you could contort yourself into a predetermined shape, break yourself into jagged aching pieces, and then slowly but dramatically crumble into ash,

actually, i was thinking, if anything here should burn, i want it to be you.

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this is available as part of Study Of, a mini collection you can buy as a pdf for £4!

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inflammable

firewood, while being carefully arranged into the archetypal pyramid, says actually i was thinking maybe we could get dinner? maybe we could go to that new italian place, wear our good shirts, make a whole evening of it, leave the matches at home?

maybe, hey? maybe we throw the matches out. maybe we take all the matches and the lighters and the exposed electric wires and we pile them in the car, drive out to the coast and throw them in the sea.

firewood says i get i’m not good for much now, what with how you cut through my spine and i died and left to my own devices, all i’ll do is rot, but actually, i think i want to rot? actually, considering the chainsaw, i don’t want to light your way or warm your bones,

actually, when a tree falls in a forest while a chainsaw shouts timber it does make a sound, but you can never hear it, what with the chainsaw,

and actually, i’m sick of my raging grief being drowned out by your triumphant roar. i was thinking, maybe i could get dinner, and you could contort yourself into a predetermined shape, break yourself into jagged aching pieces, and then slowly but dramatically crumble into ash,

actually, i was thinking, if anything here should burn, i want it to be you.

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Study Of, a poetry collection by yours truly

themed around writing as a coping method; existing as marginalised; narrative and what subjects deserve the weight of a poem; & the expectation that as a trans mentally ill person every poem i write is commentary on being trans and/or mentally ill

also known as Oh My God Avery Write A Poem About Literally Anything Else

available as a pdf for £4+

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SUNDAY MORNING

for the boy,‬ a quiet hymn. ‪for the holy,‬ a quiet him. ‪we lie quiet in bed listening to the rain and‬ ‪that's what divinity is.‬ ‪i say a prayer for his safety – ‪i press gentle kisses along his collarbone,‬ ‪that's what praying is.‬ ‪no room here for judgement.‬ ‪the rain falls on everything, always,‬ ‪that's our god. the gentle pitter patter‬ ‪singing a quiet hymn for the boy.‬

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HERE THE TEETH, a poetry collection by yours truly

subject matter includes identifying with monsters, the narrative of recovery, coping methods/mental illness, & that feeling when you're lying on the kitchen floor at 3AM listening to the Mountain Goats for the third time that week.

available as a PDF for £4+

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on being raised on fairy tales in which you are the monster // a. m. h.

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hey hey if you like this poem, an edited version is part of this collection of poems on the same theme