WE STAYED UP HALF THE NIGHT TOGETHER IN FANTASTIC
CONVERSATION EXCHANGING THE MUNDANE IN ALL ITS EMPOWERING
GLORY I JUST WANT THE SAFETY OF A SLUMBER PARTY I WANT TO BE A
SEMIPROFESSIONAL RECREATIONAL SPOONER A SPOONER OF BODIES
A SPOONER OF POST-PLATONIC FORMS
DESTROY HOMOPHOBIA WITH DIALOGUE ITS MORE THAN JUST THE LAW
OH SHIT DXDE IS THIS AN AUBADE?

 

“Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.
 

Again we are deluded and infer
that somehow we are younger than we were.”
-Sylvia Plath, who rode to initial success on a Holyoke Glascock who
wrote movingly of her anxious response to drunk youth in turtlenecks

 

&& by the constant stream of notifications you shall know

i am awake

 

searching for the appropriate scale to
grieve mass extinction, shrug

feels like it deserves more than just
a moment of silence or a
period in the comments section

 

existential gloom in a minor-key then chopped and screwed or
trapped out with airhorns or split with a vocal sample
that heralds the coming drop in life expectancy

the coming rise in sea levels
the coming spike in temperature
the coming unstoppable storms
we will need the rituals they ceased
teaching us how to say, do you hear how

 

the symbols beg for pronunciation i see the ~squiggle~
to myself say swish

 

~
 

i am in debt from buying a single sweater
 

i am around my friends this evening but feel more alone than ever
 

i am crying in an SUV outside a record store
 

i am critiquing the aesthetic taste of straight women
 

i am teaching boys to request sexpeople hold their left thumbs
 

i am in awe of the couplet
 

i am half-hard in some grey sweatpants talking about dick pics in the abstract
 

i am hiking with my lover in the future wilderness, holding medicinal sylphs in our throat
 

i am unashamed of everything except the manifest calling for another incantatory departure

and also my body-pillow
which i will hold again tonight

 
 

~ ~

 
 

depart your room at 5am left thumbing
thru poetry books for company which
is actually totally fine i spend many days
these days expecting to feel
emotions that i don’t end up feeling
i was raised roaming without the narratives i needed
and on stories that turned out not to be myths
but actually straight up lies. as a child
i thought i could save the dolphins with cans
of tuna and letters to my search engine
l o l n o o b n o w i w a n t y o u
to do what feels right and consider
skanking to my poetry or
shouting it long past the gloaming

 
 

[purgatory the twaddle smell of advancing
another day as is required but letting your
genitals brine in putrid boxers you will be
alone again anyways  none of the possible
offers stir or even suffice]

 

~
~
~

 

you know where i live
you know what i taste
like we catch we pitch
a screenplay: two men
wake up a recordshatter
summer day naked
and sweating heavily
bc the weather
smell each other
smell bad
shower in angry love

 
 
 

we teach this to the children so they know it is possible we teach them that the armpit is an erogenous zone we teach them your loves will leak fluids and gases we teach them intimacy is sickness and ugly treasure collected rocks from the collective backyard’s ever-dry streambed we teach them the fairy tale of boy meets girl and dad buys wedding is kiddie stuff that gives way to charming trajectories of dank cunt and ass swoon for the hoodoo psalms practice ancient insomnias a little death and

a shared Hulu account at dawn

 
 
 

jrdare-1

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

IT ISN’T EASY FOR ME TO LET IT GO
BECAUSE I SWALLOW EVERY SINGLE WORD, EVERY WHISPER
AND EVERY SIGH EATS AWAY AT THIS HEART OF MINE DOT DOT DOT
AND ITS HARD TO LEARN AND ITS HARD TO LOVE WHEN YOU ARE GIVING ME SUCH SWEET NOTHING, WOAH OH U

 

I stay straight and beat my cage
during heart burn its phallic it’s a dick move its an organ throbbing in pain
insomnia is a bitch            a civilized yawping            symptom of domestication
 

How many times have I sat up and listened to Sweet Nothing by Calvin Harris
featuring Florence Welch as a cure for another sleepless dawn
 

What if this wasn’t a rhetorical question
 

It is more than twelve
 

It is just as fertile ground for a poetics of lived dignity as any other canon-cool immoderate assuaging insobriety
P O E T R Y ’s next enfant terrible whimpering my Things
over an Internet of Shit

baby monitor // fuck it, podcast my taint

more muffintop than edgy

 

Life hack:
We are being skull-fucked by data
Being skull-fucked by someone you love is a wonderful feeling
a complex surrender of control of air of language to the wet music
of whatever is like but isn’t noise
 

Being skull-fucked is literally the goal of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets
 

Kenny Goldsmith should be skull-fucked
 

I mean that unadulterated: what is more creative while being uncreative and using the tools of reproduction to produce and force consumption without reproduction what is more conceptual what is more fantasy than praxis what is more messy in practice what do we choke on more what is more disgusting to encounter without receiving an apology afterward what is more disembodying than the cock or dildo of another forcing open your jaw not in a scream or a gasp or a chomp or a fuck pigs or to say anything about annihilation but just to take in another
 

poem that begins or ends with genitals
 

Skull fucking someone you love is something we do not talk about with children even teens and something we don’t encourage them to think about
that we ourselves, perhaps, do not take time to consider — even the most radical
of parents would not let me sit down their progeny and ask:
 

what sorts of violence would you give someone else?
 

how would you handle how sometimes it feels good and how almost always
it feels not bad?
 
 
 

take notes:

i’m only alive in the intersubjective

take notes:

it doesn’t matter how I was born
i’m learning to love through mimicry

take notes:

it me, spitroasted
between The Concept and The Hybrid

 
 
 

mommy, what do
these tears mean?

 
 
 

purity is the most disgusting thing i ever been taught

to conceive

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Junior Dare is a crip, abolitionist poet dreaming of the post-queer, studying the left of the future and the right of the present, tweeting @prismxp. Previous poems can be sought out in Tagvverk, DPS: an online journal of deaf and disabled literature & art, and elsewhere. Weaponize yr curiosity, or at least hold it tight.