FOR YOUR MOTHER'S SAKE

BE A QUEER DISAGREEABLE

[queerdisagreeable]

A name meaning bearer of words, of queer words.

Luc Grey, Queer Disagreeable, is a writer and spoken word artist. H*s poetry explores identity, love, family, and hope.

He has been published in a growing number of anthologies, including Letter to my Little Trans Self and Mousai, Intersection I; si vis pacem, para bellum.

This blog houses a number of h*s works. You can find more on h*s website, here.

[queerdisagreeable]

[queerdisagreeable]

[catilinas]

simplifying the rhyme scheme a bit here 👍

[i-scan-your-poems]

Metrical form: iambic pentameter, sonnet

Rhyme scheme: AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[inthefallofasparrow]

A sonnet is a simple fourteen lines. You could repeat the same line fourteen times, But why rely on such mundane designs, When you could simply think of other rhymes? A sonnet is a chance to show what shines When poems work within such paradigms, But deconstruction sometimes undermines With waste and other literary crimes. This sonnet wants for content; how it pines To reach some greater meaning; how it climbs, But ultimately falls short and declines. We all succumb to apathy sometimes. To make a sonnet (here the rhyme scheme breaks), A simple fourteen lines is all it takes.

[queerdisagreeable]

[ID: Two images of an illustrated poem, What Monster by Abs Dion. The illustrations are in greyscale, a set of pointed teeth, a wide eye, an apple with a pomegranate’s insides, lips, dripping viscera.

Poem transcript:

What creature, what fetid monster do you seek? What curled toe? What wild eye?

What mouth, what putrid, gaping maw, what teeth do you crave? What piercing of flesh, what crushing of bone, what bruise against your jugular, what lips do you beg for?

What heart, What rotting apple, What pomegranate do you repress? What rotten slab of meat, What bloody, gushing vein,   What raw nerve do you pull out?

What desire, what innocently sinful lust and what straying gaze, what hungry tongue flicks out to catch the cloud of his cologne? What clawed hand entwines with yours? What infernal words bewitch your mind?

What dark monster, what underbed being, what closeted creature, do you love?

/end ID]

[poikaboo]

what compels someone to enter a haunted house? what drives someone into a door where the paint is peeling and the hinges are rusted to creaking?

there is no point in pleading innocence – we all know the stories, and we can sense hauntings in our skin. we taste living death with our tongue, like snakes, and much like we can tell one set of footsteps from another, when we are laying in bed and listening to our family settle down, we have a sense for when the creaking of the house is unnatural, for when there are footsteps that aren’t our own.

what makes someone know all of this, and push open the door anyway? what calls to them?

is it curiosity? are they so desperate to know the truth that they would risk their life for it? is it plain and simple foolishness? (though, one might argue that this and curiosity share many of the same traits.) is it that same sense of the unnatural footsteps, telling us that there is something here and it must be found, damn the dangers?

perhaps it’s loneliness. if you have been cut off from all else, why would you not push open that door, and let out the stale air? there is a promise of companionship within the body of the house. ghosts will steal your breath, and it will feel like laughter. the thick curtains, as they ensnare you, will be a dusty embrace, heavy with the memory of all that this house has known.

and when they enter the house at last, what is it that drives them to leave? this house is empty, after all, and could easily be a home. this house is welcoming you, in ways it has twisted over years of abandonment, it is beckoning you to rest. it is pulling back the covers of a king-sized bed and hoping that it can hold you under, feel your warmth and keep it close. why would you leave the most faithful and dedicated companion?

why did you come here, if only to leave?

[poikaboo]

{ID - a blackout poem from page 26 of Dracula, edited to read: “he / is / flame / he would not / tell me of / daylight / for / these places / are / no more than / dead / ‘come,’ he said at last, ‘tell me of / me.’ / I passed / deep into the dark / found / the world / with him / in / plans and deeds / in everything, / I remarked / I shall be / your patronymic” END ID}

dracula daily got me acting unwise

[poikaboo]

{ID - magnet poetry on a whiteboard that reads: "kill our lunar year we sing /slow cold and dark our love will wane / try one last beautiful broken song / shine for me baby" END ID}

[poikaboo]

feelin like a ghost

{ID: magnet poetry that reads, "I am tooing and froing lightlike through my weary windowed heart crossing every deep love like the silense (silence) following a poem" "by poi" END ID}

[poikaboo]

{ID - three magnet poems, many words & phrases created by stacking multiple magnets

1 - "sorry to my unblood kin / you died / & I just wasted this given time / writing my weary poems / living under shadow / morning (mourning) like I know you"

2 - "you can't / bring them home / love them now"

3 - "transgender / day of / honour"

END ID}

i don't want flowers on my grave. i want them in a vase on my windowsill as i look out on another day where i'm safe and happy.

[poikaboo]

{ID - a magnet poem in the shape of a cup, that reads, "mourning my sick & weary body / why must / spoons spring / from my blood / like a / feverish ocean harvest" END ID}

like pouring from an empty cup

[poikaboo]

poetry is creation is spell is writual

{ID - magnet poem titled, "writual", that reads, "pull broken fingernails from / their small beds / wake them slowly / bring this cup of hearts blood / & paint your pale crescents / with it" END ID}

[poikaboo]

{ID - magnet poetry that reads, "would you cross / through/ the full dark // to / shine upon me // my / silent / rising / moon" END ID}

would you?

[poikaboo]

140223

she teases me, frequently, about the way she leaves a poet bereft of words and she's right.

my heart's a slow one. feelings not like fireworks, but like flowers.

not lavender -- that's hers. not forget-me-not -- i know she remembers me.

ah. yes.

sunflowers.

my heart is a slow one. feelings like sunflowers,

they wait to unfurl underneath patient radiance, they wait to spill themselves onto the page, because words come to me in the night,

in the night, her beauty is reflected to me by the moon i'm not enraptured by its direct light. give me time to compose myself.

dear, i accept your challenge. i'll turn my tied tongue back on you, i'll capture you in a cushion of verbs, i'll wrap my legs around your verse. dear, you do leave me speechless

but, oh, sweet dear, i am saving my words for later.

[poikaboo]

I performed at the first ever Hastings Trans Pride yesterday! What a night of incredible artists and queer unity 🩵🩷

[poikaboo]

Are you: - Tired of the binary? - Looking for a transcendental dating experience? - Ready to blur the lines between sex and intimacy? - A loving dom in search of the ideal pet? If the answer to all these questions is yes, DykeFags™ might be for you! PLAY NOW

my newest project is out! a love letter to the genderfucks, freaks, and fagdykes out there making gender into a mix of performance art and competitive sport.

[poikaboo]

...[Dr Jekyll] now sat on the opposite side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection...