16 January 2013
This piece was submitted to Queer (in) Crisis by Daniel Lourenço. More of his work can be found on the LusoQueer blog.
“any appearance of the individual heart
is a political occurrence.”
— kathy acker
“the revolution did not happen
for the sake of prostitutes and homosexuals.”
— colonel galvão de melo
caffeine starcluster of morningache and out of bed and right into boyhood right to rip it sunrise: much milkred: hatred sent. a book incidental & pierced sentimental: she is rather good. today twinkpunk blocks of roving queers flock to the corpse of a geometry because she said so. says to them: “it has teeth to better test your flow so you best preserve your lucifer shreds on silver platter, so as to provide them poison-like to the luminous presences of manpower and mandible. also, fuck everything but the burning heart.”
goes to best spot to create her scene, left eye clouded to shitstorm again. has done away with drafts of father’s discourse: that which is word for shit and fear which is word for falter; out with that which is word for. destroy: daddy stem, cut cut men as in, cut shit and cut death down. shouts: “if your body has not torn its nerves open to then find its black cores marble-cracking on street paved with impatience and the stomach-turned populations of these skins then you need to shut the fuck up about who i give my body to.”
other-girl hears the good news and adds: “also, best pay attention to the licking of the flame. desire is harsh; tends to sway way past waste the page and onto wake the wind up to you. and though we differ on politics and mother-parts, on skins and their counter-parts too, this map is still clear as a scream as a sigh.”
note then that the precariousness of brown punctures rest-assured her fight monotone; a manyforced piercing is required to even start making sense of this and rage is a start and perception and favour to self. demanding retribution, dearth now blooms for most plus: manifesto for pretty boys breaks through. blast powers, black powers, non-powers trickle.
meanwhile carnation conservatives silence fag and whore in favour of phallic their communal, such bullshit. she come counter the sound of their ripped mouth pundits with a live rendition of chipcore porn so as to delete their redundances: this is not diplomacy: his cunt has claws deep in it. because yes, going back to portugal she chose to be a boy for another nine months and his mouth was then full of powers and needs; this boy with shades of dick for every circumstance, face and papers summer-bruised, steps on mouth much with want faster than fall: so violent.
fades to four-minute slut so as to crash their cuntcracker complex. turns to crowd of clash-lips: “so pretty you, all you girls so abyss goliath: so ready to gorge. am grateful for sex, friends and failure as i sit and drink little fennec’s phoenix piss so as to harness heart & fist.” lips licked, having not very eagerly hummed notes on the ego, she adds “basically, now that it’s safe to say that high art equals low bass, i expect most quarrels of the cunt to come forward all clever and leporine, tumbling and laugh-like.”; various unserious things ensue.
other girl back to a joy and a jag, cries “kisses to you who are false and fun, kisses to the death of the very unworth of whatever works one-way”. like copper girl and like any fag, her belly so full of burst the latent, the liquid consistency of riot and of rip it. there goes the rythmic art of ragged laugh for the just-right tone of her red act; there goes the she-gorge-too to grasp the loss of rabid possibility: a poem about rage.
rage which wrecks the nerve forever in the after-may of the fawns.
rage so that lacks die out & good morning, gorgeous.