Let’s get something straight
I’m not
Or at least, that’s a situation in question
But that’s not what I’m here for, you see
The acronym LGBT has a terrific little tail that everyone tends to trip over
And the conversations that transpire when I attempt to try the closet door
Leave me frequently swept under the rug
Maybe I’m just a little lost in translation
But they should know that identity is not orientation
And it can be tricky to articulate, so I don’t mind the extra explanation
But I’m telling you there’s a tipping point where you can’t expect me to take it
To tally up the talks I’ve had tearing apart the phrase
“So, genderfluid is like another word for bisexual, then, right?”
Because there’s already this his-and-hers internal tug-of-war
So tying in other types of ignorance just gets tiring at times
And trying again and trying again and again to get the point across
Leads me down a tangled train of thought that runs off the tracks in unclear tangents
Because conversations transition without the intended amendments
Because these transcripts would transcend the usual transfer of data
Into transgressions and obsessions with more than I’m able to
Confirm or confer without temperamental reactions
Feeling entirely translucent overlooking their infractions
Wondering why more words aren’t composed in a way that allows them
To be transposed to neutrality or at least farther from
Specific definitions testing how gendered things can get
Wondering why I don’t make any sense yet
[Breathe]
Let me be perfectly queer
The acronym LGBT has a tetrad attraction detailing at least part of this
Just a trifle of understanding if you’re looking to comprehend it
And if you don’t care to learn then don’t bother to ask
But take some time from your day and I’ll try to make it fast
Go ahead and interrogate, I don’t mind all that much
Whatever trips your trigger, as long as it’s not pointed at us
I can’t speak on behalf of every transgender teen
But if you don’t know a word, I can tell you what I mean
I can text you a trillion terms to absorb
Or trim down the lesson to the basics if you’re bored
But don’t tell me that pronouns are a hassle to learn
When they catch in the throats of those just waiting their turn
To stop hiding their tears and be treated the same
Teaching one person at a time until the world hears their true name
Don’t expect trophies, but I’ll give you my thanks
Don’t tease us about the clothes that make our spines and souls ache
I want to wear this letter T like a cross from my neck
Saying the prefix trans- means across and I like it like that
Traversing the spectrums and binaries all mixed
Transcontinental, transatlantic, transfixed
By the beauty in boys and the glamour in girls
But mostly the neithers and boths in this world
Don’t tell me it’s a transient, temporary tale
Or that I’m totally enamored with getting off the most followed trail
I’m taking back traumas and tense muscles and taunts
Until tentative trespassers give us what we want
A presence, a voice, and all human rights
It shouldn’t be a privilege to feel safe at night
Don’t tiptoe around troubles, just stand with us here
Add a voice until we trumpet our triumphs and cheers
Take my hand, hear my voice
Listen, learn something new
Because LGBT has a cross and
Cross my heart
I’m with you

When looking for love leave no stone unturned
When fighting for what you want be an animal viscous and strong
When all the odds are against you keep at it
When looking for love don't forget sometimes it finds you

While you're searching don't forget to stop and looking around it maybe right next to you
When fighting for love make sure you're happy
When the odds are against you make sure the odds aren't trying to help you
When looking for love time is the best healer and tool

Time does not mean wait on them
That's not love
That's lust
Love isn't one persons job it's boths job
Love can't be a princess waiting on a knight
Sometimes that knight just snuck by the dragon so it'll fight their demons

Meet them halfway and see what real love is
Meet them in battle and help each other win
Meet them in hell and climb out side by side
Meet them in happiness and find happiness

When searching for love you must try
You must be able to walk fight and trust them
When searching for love search for a companion not a lover

there is no hell below us
nore is there a heaven above us
we are in them

were in hell, were  in heaven.

we create them
we breathe them
we are them
they boths live inside us

they are bonded in our minds
twisting things together
to create our own spin

we are them

a citrus *****, sveedish,
   citrus, absolut,
    straight,
      with ice...
       some might call it
a sewer lemon squinting
pinch, without a first
of a month...

        but it's certainly
a ***** *****,
   given that all the impurities
from the "apparently"
filtered frozen water
start to appear,
   like dissolved tofu flakes...

***** *****:
    ***** and ice...
     i agree: an ugly cocktail
but right on the mark...

because what on earth could
have possibly happened in
england when i was away from
it for two months,
in an asylum of my grandparent's
abode of:
      oh sure, sure...
   marry...
    hell knows no wrath,
  as a woman belittled...

      a long trip from a sleepy
town once tipped to be the next
metallurgy capital,
overgrown with weeds...
   busy Warsaw with a faint
tickling of German...
         more German than English:
and at that moment:
tourism seemed, refreshing...

     back in sleepy England?
even the most populated snippets
of Warsaw didn't seem that
appealing as, as *****,
as welcoming as:
the shadiest, scabbiest postcards
from the Eastern Avenue
   moving from the A406 into
the mini Raj of a certain
part of Essex...
    the part not allocated to
the Cockney migration...

        shady as ****...
but if you asked me to get out
of the car and walk these streets?
hell, i know a few Bulgarian
prostitutes not too far away
and... oddly enough...
half an hour... half an hour without
an *******...
    just to tattoo an invisible
mark of my fingertip on
her buttocks...
    
               at one point she collapsed
and said no more,
   so we just lay there,
while i kissed her eyelids...
        
           what did i leave reading?
the times magazine, 17.03.18,
main articles read the following:

   if you're not broody and you can
pay your own bills,
   why settle?
          is that all?
    back in Edinburgh i did that
for 3 years, and god, if that's
an achievement?
     hell... might as well move into
making pancakes territory...

because the other option is:
   and if you can't?
   why give a *******' worth
of jingle for these curtain-people?
    3 years isn't much,
but in those 3 years it wasn't
a hot topic...
      
             2 months away and what
do i return to?
   by neighbours think i'm dead...
my feet gave odours of french blue,
and the cat that made my room
her high tower was chased away
from the socks up...
   i took a shower...
          which also included
saving a moth who attempted
suicide...
    
         flew right into the shower
cubicle...
   stopped soaping myself
and picked the poor ****** up,
breathed on it,
   unrolled one of its wet
antennas hidden beneath its
wet wing using a cotton bud on
a plastic matchstick
   no technical name to
usurp this description)...

   and watched it vibrate its wings...
trill: RRRRRRRRR
     its wings dry...
              while puckering up
a mouth to my finger for balance
and retrospect...
  
    yes, cats, really are,
the gatekeepers of finding a tier
of affection in insects,
    butterflies are too shy,
   and never mistake a room lit
by a candle or lightbulb
     for the ******* day,
go figure...
        
     in the past two months though,
this is the sort of tabloid
dynamic of "news" missing in
these parts of the world,
because, to be honest,
if i didn't write this:
   **** all would have apparently
happened...

            but yes...
cats are gatekeepers to experiencing
affection from an
individuation *** ****
        (with man) -
                the mirror of man,
or how man escaped the collective
unconscious of humanity,
solomon took to the ant...
    
    i? the moth.
        bee too...
   i remember feeding a dying
bee honey,
  watching it pitifully extend
its tongue into a dollop
    of honey and die from
an overdose...
       but it was dying anyway...

somehow eating chicken
isn't so accommodating a concern
in all honesty...
  given that chickens live
like aristocracts before
the French revolution... chop chop...
what's the problem?

      and we are not industrialised
creatures to suddenly
lament the industrialised
;production of cockley-doodle-do?
     it's like attempting to
hear a grand historical laugh
worth an aeon,
   while instead merely listening
to a second's worth of
a constipated giggle: a snigger...
af if these current zeitgeisters
          are robbing us of a past...

becauase if Orwell is the current
curriculum in the west...
   and the east used to ban in...
   why is Orwell suddenly
   dogma in the west,
  when it was prohobited in the east?
ah... right... overshot the Huxley
bit... the, real nightmare
of aesthetic eugenics,
         or whatever compound you'd
want to use...

     so Orwell used to be forbidden
in East Germany...
    because?
   becauase it is now West German
dogma or rather:
  since capitalism is cannibalising
itself...
      it requires to project
     a jumping caterpillar
to jump over, with an antithesis?

  which is Huxley...
     but that has no ideological
frameworks,
      too bad Dolly...
  i'm sure Mr. Hyde can teach
his clone the debauchery once
upon reserved from the dynamic
orthodoxy of time
and a father, and a son...
   the rich are not evil...
     they are merely not
as oppurtunistic as the poor...
   so go figure...
  its hardly a deep receding
archetype waiting to bud
in my mind, which nonetheless,
perpetually slips into
the back of my tongue
boxed with the tonsil to shut up...

how does a moth dry its wings?
vibrates them, standing still,
but i still had to unfold
one of its sodden antennas
     from beneath its wet wings...
and see...
   cats as gatekeepers to
the metaphor of man in insect...
and the godlessness
       of man: without insects...

just the casual disinterest
          of concern for an insect
becomes 100x more than
a formal interest of discocern
for a man...

                  that's a quadratic
maxim:

     i will casually treat an
insect with more concern
            than i might a man...
because i am not obliged
to any collectivism,
       no hierarchy,
   no: formality...
                   trans-gender
is as the **** talking
mouth of the odd instance
of being transcendent within
the nonetheless unifyng
branches leading
to the stalk, and...
    ****... roots...
    ******* rubber:
extends on boths sides:

   8  ------- 1 ------- ∞

        1 = undeniable,
   given 0 = negatation
    (counter-thesis of Kantian
atoms, words,
   since letters already
consist of bigger than
atoms elements: Na: sodium)...

     even if there is a void,
i still fill that "void"
with the purpose of denying
it...
        atheism is bonkers, ergo...
oh the void of catholicism
i'd prefer to watch
magpies cackling over
which of them is going
to steal the silver spoon...

     ***** *****...
   saving a moth while taking
a shower...
        as much of england
in the past 4 hours as in
the 2 months i was away.

now we're stading in the middle of the battlefied,
got my weapons on boths hands and my fingers on the triggers,
but i can't go through 'cause i know you're not bulletproof,
and i can't when i'm in love with the enemy.