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magenta
The kind my homie Leah calls screaming Vulva, a sparkler through gray Hair with glint of mercury. Quickly we become elders in this city Smears our fingers like new murder. They’re my mentor, with Sinti-Roma’s bleeding tarot. When I was a kid they wrote Femme Shark Manifesto, I lived A childhood with pink books and gem mischief. That zine is the zine that I mean when I mean the zine. It was a roll call for fem/mestyles, Pumped a saline shot of sadness, But at least there was fucking to look forward to. I wanted to grow up and be them and then be their friend forever Wash all their dishes Eat drying pizza out the box So I filled three bags and moved to Oakland. It was blank verse for ten months and fucking I slept on Anna’s couch, As ever, and wrote for weed magazines. Hot-handed roof gardens blush pink as lips. The other ocean coughed out boys with limps and lisps, Prince punctuated all my trysts I dated a cop for about six months A future flush with killer gear He won’t tell you about the rapes but paints and sculpts Them in his face Where eyebrows once were and should appear. Alas. This poem can’t reinstall the skin Nor grow his eyebrows back again. His fetid hide has ceased to be for all of our eternities. For this, only impotence. A poem mauve with fizzy goiter, Flaccid as Pacific sick spray spewed, A poem to coil you in fistulae of yarn and stars