"performative" poems
It seems sadly ironic that the LGBTQ community remains transphobic when it comes to Male Lesbians. It's the pathetic politics of fixed groupthink, get woke while still asleep, social justice theory with out any justice in its performative aspect
Just so you know I'm not performing gender. I'm being gender
and he's a fire ******* red head
I propose that as a straight male I may also be a lesbian, ***** aside please love my man-gina butch ladies the way I love yours! Both straight and very much a lesbian I do two genders simultaneously and both smoke cigars.
My childhood; marked by a dark tragedy scared me for life. I remember running down the hall in junior high proclaiming my lesbianism and no one would be my friend. Everyone called me names and the butch girls would jeer at me and knock me around when ever I went into the ladies room just to hear them flush or cop an innocent feel. I felt so isolated when I finally realized that the female lesbians would have nothing to do with me.
Do I not suffer the agony, frustration and anxiety of feeling self hatred because I am continually rejected by lesbians and objectified only as a man even though I am a lesbian too.
Do men like me not suffer continual discrimination by women who identify with the masculine?
ENOUGH!!!
I just dont feel understood in terms of my true lesbian identity
I love lesbian ***** as much as the next ***** maybe even a lot more.
It's way past time!
Male lesbians must finally come out of the closet and be accepted as true members of the Lesbian community and be invited to all Prince God ***** dance parties.
After all ladies remember I'm a lesbian you're a lesbian.
Up with MLLGBTQ
male lesbians, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer
Dysphoric Men Lesbians Must Unite
….
Male Lesbians Unite
Join M.L.U.
Lesbians R Us
" We Love Lesbians"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmTWAJRbx2Q
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 8:43 AM UTC
Months burst with potential understanding
Thyroid, Childhood Cancer, Breast Cancer
And Autism - a landscape of perception
I knew little once
Before lived experiences carved pathways
Of comprehension
Hand flapping, repeated movie scenes
Specific sensory needs
Neurological landscapes diverse as humanity itself
From verbal to non-verbal
From sibling to parent
From self-discovery at 34
My perspective widens like a lens
Societal Echoes
The world whispers harsh narratives
"Discipline them"
"Fix them"
"Normalize"
But we are not broken
We are different
Intricate neural networks
Misunderstood symphonies
Digital age amplifies cruelty
Marginalization becomes performance
Awareness transforms to spectacle,
Unfolding Truth
Intricate neural pathways
Misread as discordant tunes
The digital age sharpens cruelty's edge
Marginalization dressed as entertainment
Awareness turned into spectacle,
A truth slowly unraveling
Hatred cloaked in the guise of compassion
Bigotry masquerading as care
April - a month of performative understanding
We see what others refuse to witness
Complexity beyond simple categorization
Humanity in all its beautiful, challenging variations
Spectrum wide as consciousness
Unbound by neurotypical constraints
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 9:06 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
You are quick to question but
Occupy cisheteronormativity mindlessly
Unprepared for queer identities
Assuming I lack knowing of myself
Reshuffling the same deck of cards
Engaging in a play of poker with hatred
Subjected to foul treatment
The words you spat
Unsolicited and unflattering
Chasing my mind endlessly
Kidnapping me hostage
I have been coated in sweltering biohazards
Nevermore to find protection and healing
To see another day seems impossible
If my own blood casts me away
Malevolence becoming motherly
Eliminating my mental health
,
Its those who think they are greater
Trailblazing a performative show
Sabotaging an already discriminated space
To go another day with your words
Itching down into my skin
****** becoming friendly
Envisioning how I'd feel left alone
From the moment you open your mouth
Orchestrating emotions like a ballad
Reconsolidating the toxic bond with binary
Can't seem to wake you up
Having to constantly do the work for you
And what am I left with
Naive justification and selfish excuses
Gravitate your energy into doing better
Exploitation is your entertainment
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 1:13 AM UTC
#
"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"
***"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.
And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.
They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.
Here’s why:
Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.
When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.
That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.
They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.
It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.
And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…
They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark
while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."***
#
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC
im overcome with the need to reinvent myself and confess everything to everyone, to become so open that im bleeding out every secret ive ever had to keep all over the linoleum floor, but second thoughts stitch me back together with needles made of words meant to cut, whittled down thin enough to fit just underneath the skin, pulling gashes in my skin together with online threads about checking up on your friends that everyone reads and nobody listens to, performative pieces that people regurgitate to make you think they care but they dont, because we're too busy worrying about ourselves to think of anybody else. we're conceited by nature, reverse narcissists kneeling by a river, scrutinizing our reflections, searching, aching for imperfections so we can say "look at how horribly ugly i am and pity me". we're too proud to be pitiful and too pitiful to have any pride, paradoxical advertisements of lonely people too scared to ask for love.
my hands are shaking and my mind is buzzing and if this makes any semblance of sense to you then I am so terribly sorry.
Oct 23, 2020
Oct 23, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC
✨ it's time for renovation; it's time for us to make a change.
• friendships are work, honour the flowers that have decorated your path and don't be reclusive.
• however, being alone is simultaneously essential: carve out pockets of unabashed loneliness, yearning, and self-reflexive intimacy.
• write with less mythological standards. your favourite authors wrote drafts, pages and pages of nothing. no one emerges like a phoenix.
• persistence and self conviction are how revolutionary girls go public, spaces of uncertainty and lapses of effort are how revolutionary girls become real & effective. do both.
• use the good silver every day because every day is all there is.
• maintain your own standards of success and never trust rich people/the police/men in authority.
• do not imagine that revolutionary ideals make you above the hu$tle: money is ***** but imagining leftism will absolve you from labour is even dirtier.
• don't stay in your lane and play by the SJW's rules. it is better to actively engage in discourse and say the wrong thing than not say anything at all. the paranoid ego will destroy activism.
• live in the impure spaces, grip hold to contradiction, language is always performative and alienated, no one "means" what they "say".
• feel the fear and do it anyway; do it wrong; do it with rigor & recklessness.
• you will never be bored because you will always have books to read. • the past never leaves: there is no time in the unconscious: everything that has ever happened is always still happening, and so don't judge yourself for still being in pain about things that happened a long time ago: "a long time ago" doesn't really mean ****
• never apologize for crying; never apologize for not wanting to have ***
• remember girls own the impossible, the void, the image, and when this system falls apart, we rise. we rise anyway.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC
cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain
It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”
Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway
watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine
into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,
but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.
I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—
unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives
sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.
Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.
I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,
but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds
deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.
He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.
Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?
You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.
When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he
It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.
I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,
he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.
People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****
But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"
What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:09 AM UTC
For witless wonder,
I wonder,
do its servants
chase
winkless
wrinkles
in time long-gone?
Is a thin piece
of cloth
so performative?
So political?
Or are you trailing
crescendoes of
long-tuneless
songs?
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC
*When she spoke
The sound of her voice
Was like the trumpet of divine will
On creation day: soft like magic
Rhythmic like a prayer
Solemn like an incantation
Performative like a judicial sentence
And when she laughed
Her laughter was hypnotic and new
Like the world’s first laugh ever
Her beauty was surreptitious like a dream
It crept in like a mist at the break of day
So I sat and listened to the melody of her voice
and it felt like I was swathed in the aura of her eyes*
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
side hugs are like
performative wokeness;
shallow, flaky, meaningless
convenient, censored -
appealing, yes?
appeasing, too, i guess.
but no
i demand the real deal
furnish me with both arms
disregard my weak frame,
i promise, i wont break
let me have it
im not a snowflake
just a girl who
likes to take
on the world
with hugs
as her weapon of choice.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 1:52 AM UTC
I try to avoid
writing about you:
I consult with
deep sleep and music
instead, but
They lack what
poems have:
a permanent place
in performative space,
A sight full shape: like
the scent of your name exhaled
from the back of my throat.
I admit: time did not
properly permit love to
become anything more than
a thing that could have been done,
But
I've missed you,
-somehow-
I missed you,
-there are times, still-
I miss you
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
It's getting harder but easier all at the same time
I stand in a haze; no longer performative
It used to be an act but I entertain the flies like worn out hazards
Maybe the reason you hate yourself is because it reminds you of what you can't have, which included me
& The days of confusion.
I'll go now
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 4:29 AM UTC
Lovers' wanton "where" strings out
a mystery on chainmail airs. Outlandish signals
redirect off-stage some dull producers, sever tries
to hoist the classics, sullen, tied to water-
casting, free from gambled whims,
all spades & spires shuffle outward
dizzy after pain. Roll credits, feign the after-flash
of fertile come-across, impeaches fickle
livelihood to roam less traveled.
Put upon, this dust snuffs out
no finer match. Alight and stay
up-catching to the grim-wire news
that feeds us all three limbs from shades
of justice: error anchors līve
with words & buffer on their bread.
Await the wrath instead. Oustated
ample questionry upsold
to counter-rhythm: eat the fee
and freebase wrong to wit—
too long to carry it, too short
to carve an inkling out of sorts.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
I went on a date with my ex
A day after what was supposed to be our one year anniversary
It’s almost like it was a first date, that the timing said the clocks reset and it was all new
Everything was perfect, between the tears.
The sun was gentle enough to be warming as his touch, as his fingers danced over my back as we sat on a log, talking non-stop like making up for lost time, but feeling that no time had passed at all.
The wind was sweet and blew my hair just enough for him to brush it away, and his eyes were more beautiful than ever before, though lacquered in tears of longing.
Every silence was punctuated with an “I love you”, sometimes said, and sometimes just felt in the tightening of a hug.
Everything fit together just right, and there was no awkwardness between our bodies as they settled into their comfortable familiarity, his shoulder a perfect rest, and my waist a home for his arms, it was so perfect I almost didn’t feel it at all.
I can’t even write about our kisses, punctuating pauses like commas, illicit like a last cigarette.
Coming out of the conversation, nothing really changed.
Everything he said was perfect, and without a shred of begging or manipulation. Everything was said with deep love and care, but no pretension. No gesture was performative, no sentence rehearsed, but everything he said was the most beautiful poetry.
I knew that while we had both changed so much, although our paths crossed so sweetly, we still were going in different directions.
We walked through an unfamiliar park, somewhere we hadn’t been before, and as we walked back to go, I thought about paths crossing and looping. Maybe we’re on a little loop that will rejoin later, maybe we’re going to just keep getting further apart.
Sometimes I see a tree or a branch that makes me think maybe we’re on the same path again — maybe the wait is over — but I’ve never been here before. He’s never been here before.
We both know what we want (each other), there’s just still something in the way.
I’ll love you forever, and I will treasure today so dearly.
We can’t be together and we can’t really be friends, but I’m not sure how to be apart.
I’ve never really understood running away, but I sometimes feel like I could give it all up for you.
I know you would never ever ask me to, and that’s part of why I love you.
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
It not easy going up against God’s Peoples
Date your wound
Picked your fights,
"Debates test the performative aspect of leadership: stamina, mental agility
as viewers we all know the mental agility of some of them:"
**You can sway a thousand men by appealing to their prejudices quicker than you can convince one man by logic.”
― Robert A. Heinlein, Revolt in 2100/Methuselah's Children**
**
Poets should get together and debates,
The inner thoughts of each other:
We are in the heat of this pandemic
The thought of not knowing,
Who family member would get that awful text
It’s not so easy to go up against God’s people
Remember the world,
Picked your fights,
Something is going on in this world that isn’t rights
When the God given talent of man is used to destroy\
Others, it should be taken away.
If you use your time wisely, God will give you more time. If you use your energy wisely, God will give you more energy. Quote:
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 8:58 AM UTC
Its Sunday.
His hands shake slightly, almost imperceptibly
As he grips the tongs
Fumbling over charred fish fingers
Neck bent over in performative stoop
He smiles, cracks a joke
That no one is willing to indulge
More than a faint pull of a smile
There is a cliché wrench at the heart
When he offers up a peace treaty of onion rings
And we maintain our front line
Face stony, eyes squinting in polite apology
An attempt at communication
Barely there
I urge with quiet eyes that while I may not be an ally,
I refuse to become the enemy.
I think perhaps we will spend the rest of our Weekly Sundays
In this warm weather
Waging battles of steadfastness and humility and onion rings in our heads.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
Am I beyond saving?
Is this silence permanent?
Is this pain just penance in disguise?
or is it the weight of change dragging me forward?
The truth is—if I change,
I want it to be for her.
Not for the next empty word called “love.”
I want it to be real this time.
Not performative. Not reactive.
We were passionate, raw,
a force to be reckoned with.
We waged war with hearts still tethered.
Fitted like puzzle pieces carved in chaos—
Two magnets caught in a dance of push and pull.
Still, we were a team. A twin flame.
Bonnie & Clyde.
We loved with force and vibrance.
Peace, and malice.
Wicked and delighted.
We were not the calm,
but the storm that washes away the pain.
So, I pray in the quiet corners of my mind
that she’s somewhere, doing the same—
growing, healing, hurting, hoping.
That this is the cocoon phase.
Before the miracle of us begins again.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC