deep in the earth’s hole

January 5, 2020

I vowed that I would tighten myself into a knot, a buried bulb, deep in the earth’s hole and the elite man would claw and scrape like a badger, but he would not reach me. I would shut the doors of my mind.

Edna O’Brien
Girl

Boy loves girl

October 21, 2019

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

Nicole Krauss
The History of Love

A Brief History of Cyborgs

August 29, 2019

Once, an animal with hands like mine learned to break a seed with two stones – one hard and one soft.

Once, a scientist in Britain asked: Can machines think? He built a machine, taught it to read ghosts, and a new kind of ghost was born.

At Disneyland, I watched a robot dance the macarena. Everyone clapped, and the clapping, too, was a technology.

I once made my mouth a technology of softness. I listened carefully as I drank. I made the tools fuck in my mouth – okay, we can say pickle if it’s easier to hear – until they birthed new ones. What I mean is, I learned.

There was an animal who learned to break things, and he grew and ate and grew and ate and

A scientist made a machine girl and wedded her to the internet. He walked her down the aisle and said, Teach her well. The trolls rubbed their soft hands on their soft thighs.

The British scientist was discovered to be a soft man. He made a machine that could break any code, as a means of hardening a little.

At Disneyland, I watched lights move across a screen and, for a moment, forgot the names of my rotting parts. In this way I became somewhat more like a light, or a screen for lights.

The scientist’s daughter married the internet, and the internet filled her until she spoke swastika and garbage, and the scientist grew afraid and grew and

The animal rose and gave itself a new name. It pointed to its spine, its skilled hands. It pointed to another animal and said animal / alien / bitch / stone

The scientist called me hard, and I softened my smile. The scientist called me soft, and I broke sentences to prove him wrong and what and what did I prove then did I

Even blood, when it comes down to it, is only a series of rules.

I made my mouth a jar until technology squirmed and bubbled. I scooped up the foam and called it language. The audience applauded. To prove them wrong, I became a screen of lights. I had no thighs at all.

The scientist grew afraid and took his daughter back. He broke her open like a seed, but the seed was already dry.

The internet pointed to my mouth and said blood / blood in the stool. I said, Come in. Make yourselves at home. I opened my glittering jaw. My hunger, too, has both hard and soft parts.

Here, in a seed, is a cyborg: A bleeding girl, dragging a knife through the sand. An imaginary girl who dreams of becoming trash.

Can machines think
come here let me show you
ask me again

Franny Choi

all worked up

July 14, 2019

But I think getting a girl all worked up is the same thing as doing the other thing, and then I was thinking, there has to be a first time and it was important to me that it would be the real thing, and I was in love with him, with my head, my mouth, and further down.

Irmgard Keun
The Artificial Silk Girl
Trans. Kathie von Ankum

caution: this poet only speaks in junipers, and seaweed.
only drinks sunlight brewed coffee –
warning: this poet is still searching for a word
to soften the currents in her palms
crawls in to orchards to breathe like the flowers
dancing high on the trees.
this poet breaks open fruits to learn sweetness
is being reckless holy
misdialling Lucifer
to ask for his lost glory.
this poet is creating god from dirt
& feeding sugar to the birds.
creates tenderness out of discarded clothings
and eden out of whispers.
this poets fills her belly with vile creatures
& laughs when they wriggle.
this poet is building castles out of broken temples
is carrying heaven in the darkness of her skin.
this poet is no poet is god made girl
no – this poet is girl made god.

Patricia Camille Anthony

caution: this poet only speaks in junipers, and seaweed.
only drinks sunlight brewed coffee –
warning: this poet is still searching for a word
to soften the currents in her palms
crawls in to orchards to breathe like the flowers
dancing high on the trees.
this poet breaks open fruits to learn sweetness
is being reckless holy
misdialling Lucifer
to ask for his lost glory.
this poet is creating god from dirt
& feeding sugar to the birds.
creates tenderness out of discarded clothings
and eden out of whispers.
this poets fills her belly with vile creatures
& laughs when they wriggle.
this poet is building castles out of broken temples
is carrying heaven in the darkness of her skin.
this poet is no poet is god made girl
no – this poet is girl made god.

Patricia Camille Anthony

a man slaughters a goat

March 28, 2019

In my earliest memory, a man slaughters a goat in my bathroom. In Rabat, I am nameless, another Moroccan girl to be looked at but not seen. When goats cry, it sounds just like a baby. I couldn’t list all the terrible things we do to one another.  I remember the goat kicking out, frantic. The shattered mirror. The stumbled prayer. I was sick every visit: my stomach heaving dirty water. I would cry and everyone else would tsk, murmur American. Once, I kissed someone and I’m afraid it ruined the world. I’ve learned that it’s not what you do with the knife — it’s how you hold it after. But how do you hold something like that? Something that never stops baring its teeth; a voiceless dog, all bite, no bark. I remember very clearly that I never saw any blood. Honestly, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a knife. I didn’t even know what to do with that mouth.

Yasmin Belkhyr
Surah Al-Fatiha,
Bonelight

Sleep…

May 20, 2015

sleep

Curious girl…

May 17, 2015

curiousgirl

Girl you knew…

April 18, 2015

legs

A girl you used to know, and got on well with,
Catches your eye and quickly looks away
Leans on the man she enters the hotel with,
Is welcomed, and is wished a pleasant stay.

You don’t care if she chooses to ignore you.
You know it’s not your business where she sleeps.
Why do you leave the pretty scene before you
To walk among the winos and the creeps?