(Imagine the space between van Gennep and Turner)


If you lost your dreams because you tucked them away

In your undies
Don’t blame God for that unshakable virginity.

Don’t waste it by making your lips do the talking,
Where lips can fly the coop to embrace its jouissance,
Which is what it is: an orgasm you can never have.

That familiar gash you loaned to the custody of time–

Don’t you care how it cuts a space where you can write?
Where you can live within a liminal time of present,

Like a primitive when she rolled her eyes in strange joy,
She who flourished in vagueness, even so, kept her dignity?

Isn’t it she who prays that God remands her lips to manhood
Without having to worry about the labels of poetry?

What is poetry?

Don’t you think it’s all juju?

Don’t you think it’s time to unmake love
And get real in-between the sheets?


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