poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis

but give it twenty-years time, give it a lot of desperate people. they say gender is performance but only (honestly) class is performance, class is shunted offon the everyday sexual life on the everyday person, all madepolitical so someone, in a fifteen-thousand-dollar apartment, can readthe new yorker and mastrubate without guilt. the blue night comes… Continue reading poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis

poem: maniac pixie dream girl

when I was younger I wanted to be the personification of some artist's inner life— i would be the girl with the mask tacked on backwards, the girl over-thinking her image— i would be youth, hope, the red blushes in forests, the red blushes when boys lean in close and say things from books—like this… Continue reading poem: maniac pixie dream girl

poem: her poetry is chaos, it looks bad on instagram.

here is some polite narcissism: she writes but she will never be Known; she puts too much in each poem. other people write: bright days, depression, love, woman, sex, lies, lust, morning. she writes: lovelustsexdepressiongirlcomingofageselfimagehatedepressionpomegranitesredboyshope. it is impossible to break the constellation into stars. or—maybe—it is possible, but why should she try? if her art… Continue reading poem: her poetry is chaos, it looks bad on instagram.

poem: the artists

lying across icecream sheets and smoking cigarettes, with the glowing nubs held ladylike between fingers like it's the 1920's. he was so perfectly confident among the freaks and they rejected her. anything utopian and egalitarian is a lie. turning on her back with her hair curling onto the mattress and nicotine hissed up under her… Continue reading poem: the artists