tell me what about yourself you hate so i may know what not to love, tomorrow.
(how else should i say this?) her brokenness has mastered mine —overwhelmed by feelings of mutual twathood— inviting us to staring contests at insomnia o’clock. his dictaphone has a single message: “i can’t fix you; I’ll carry you”. (does anyone else know this is happening? probably not.)
in outerspace this morning sat a bird on my headboard twittering in a language they call love. (binya, if love were an act, what would it look like?) suppose love were a verb that does, and outerspace a place would you […]
we sit in bars waiting for time. speaking in a foreign language they call normative because it is no longer safe to be here. (a lover waits for death, across the other side) Also: there’s nothing left once the imaginary apocalypse is no longer a reflection of […]
but i wanted to first tell you about the invention of the pinched nerve by gods who can’t do prose. (now i have a different idea).
she stands on the balcony of death overlooking his neighbours’ lavender jacaranda carpet. he will keep gnashing his teeth in far away places in Oblivion. but—hawks can’t snatch food where there is none and her mother no longer thinks he matters. so: we have taught ourselves to ward off death […]
i buy an oversized jungle green jacket that i will never wear. i see you breaking. i return to my cousin a lot, lately. in two days he will call to ask me to report to the nearest police station.
In some instances—perhaps in the future, she might think of you—like this: the man friend into whose body she has been. He sleeps with his hand on his crotch, dreaming away all the nightmares from her future: Women with bodies that float like dead fish thrown at eagles in Naivasha.
I am too skeptical to believe in a legislation on gender that won’t kill me. I have loved people out of sympathy and solidarity, And— had sex with exes because ‘closure’ is just a word and I am too afraid to admit that the body that carries me has never understood […]
will you still follow your dreams with Braamfontein’s monstrous cats sucking your nipples or, if claws that dug into your diaphragm last night left with a half a rib?