poetryA collection of 41 posts

We swap hyperlink chatter for chain-mail clatter,
thumb-sparks peppering cheap denim with ember freckles.
No mission statement—only steel on strop or stone,
queer clang leaking from the shoebox flat like pirated midnight radio.

I skim my grin along the grinding wheel,
metal tang flooding my mouth like a bitten coin.
You answer with an axe kissing spruce,
each chip a swirl of winter kindling,
each swing muscle's rebuttal to the canon of apology.

Swords belong to Sundays—polished beside the sink:
dish suds, rainbowed film, your elbow nudging mine.
We study beveled edges and boundaries together—
keep fingers clear, keep wrists loose,
keep gossip sharp enough to julienne shame.

Daggers wedge into boot tops like a spare key taped inside the fuse box;
the metro lurches, a flash of steel where adverts used to glare,
commuters blink and blame the neon,
never clock the covenant riding our calves.
We travel light, pockets bristling with maybe.

Spears won't fit the studio,
so we lash steak-knives to broom poles with bike-tube strips,
stack them in a milk crate by the radiator—angles waiting,
warm metal scenting the air like rain on tin gutters.
Our armoury grows on the floorboards.

Risk isn't rhetoric; it nicks.
You misjudge the draw—tip snips a stray curl,
burnt hair rising like solder smoke;
I loop gauze as you laugh at the sting,
our shared breath clinking louder than any lecture on resilience.
Last spring's blade-kiss still brackets my palm,
a silent grin the steel recalls when I forget;
tonight it winks beneath dish-soap light, proof enough.

Inventory in motion, never just counted:
an awl punches fresh holes in the belt of bad news;
a boning knife fillets lies from the spine of whispers;
a crochet hook loops copper wire into trip-line lace.

Edge to edge we stand, spines aligned, steel tongues spelling breach.
Our blades keep singing, shouldering daylight through the crack.

They crow over corpses,
grin from gutted homes
they claim as ramparts—
raise rotting banners
above splintered stone,
surveying flooded streets
like conquerors gloating
over vanquished dead.

Politics as pastime
curdles conscience,
barters breath for points,
scores sorrow in salt.
Some cradle lives
like cupped embers;
others stack the dead
like carrion coins.

Their glee grinds
like grit in gears,
scrapes mercy raw—
a chorus of jackals
gnawing the bones
of unburied grief.

Beloved, tonight we gloss
our mouths in Aramaic, wet
palates sweet with sugya,
thumbs tracing letter
and thigh—shin, pey, tav—
scripture skims skin,
mouth fluent beneath the argument:
a pilpul pressed
tongue-deep in mitzvot,
pliant halakha
of heat, inked hips
writhing responsa.

My lips shape blessings
into every syllable of you,
each phrase traced
with the slow sincerity
of tevah, the turning
return of teshuvah—
we unroll together,
meaning spilling
beyond the margins.

Na'aseh, we will do—
your hips already answering
questions I haven't asked,
V'nishma, we will hear
how my mouth knew
to find this blessing
before my mind could name it,
the way revelation
always comes after
the body says yes.

My hands
open new commentary
as you counter, quick—
your laughter a rebuttal
against my wandering thumb,
your hip insists
on a different footnote.
We argue with touch,
my tongue posing questions
you refuse to answer plainly—
instead, you return
with a tease of your own,
until meaning leaps
from your lips to mine—
and the proof is always in your reply.

Our study argues explicit:
mouth debates manuscript,
we chant ourselves
into contradiction,
commandments bend
under our questioning,
gates swing wide
for blessings that refuse
to be written down.

(Author’s note: this is written about, and contains very minor spoilers about, Quill & Still by Aaron Sofaer)

In Kibosh, democracy seeps
tank to tap—
no anthem air nor archway glare—
just seat-shaped petition:
porcelain plebiscite echoing in the bowl.
Not a throne set above,
not a subject consigned below.
Soft lid closing chaos;
tally wiped out in whirlpool spin;
old debts dissolved
as swirl shushes balance sheets—
history wiped down
by steady hands and elbow grease.

A plaque might as well glint sly advice:
“Relieve and believe,” implied by every fixture—
etched with wink, not warning.
No one blushes at ritual so routine;
here shame is rinsed plain as rainwater.

Tiles underfoot tessellate city maps:
grout-lines redrawn by wishbone pipes,
every step tracing circuits from waste to wonder.
Stone veins pulse deeper than any parade route—
that quiet trickle which toppled dynasties
now greets as burble in the bend.

Rinse-cycles murmur municipal code
in dialects lost on kings;
a parliament of plumbing
arguing softly below your knees.
Rumours loop through runoff—
justice soldered where copper kisses curve;
here equity isn’t theory but thread
drawn bright through every valve.

Accessible levers glint by every seat,
design on display in the gentle descent
of lids that never slam—
Even here mercy chafes before it soothes:
first-time fidget giving way to luxury’s hug
as the seat fits every shape that claims it.

Above each tank, an unwritten blessing hovers:
“May your burdens be lighter than your doubts”—
no inscription needed; every flush enacts the faith
that relief should leave something softer behind.

Hesitation tangles ankles before siphon sighs them gone;
blueprint outweighs border at every threshold—
Each stall wide for rolling wheels or wandering heels,
no guard posted but decency standing easy watch;
who sits? Anyone weary enough.

Self-washing charms whirl underfoot—
invisible stewards crowned in spellwork—
floors glisten not from labour but design.
Some claim revolutions spark from slogans;
here they bubble up where gasket kisses grout,
no gilded lavatories—just honest cubicles
marching shoulder-to-shoulder,
graffiti murmuring:
even Artemis sometimes squats among mortals.

Flushes toll soft benedictions:
mercy modulated by mains pressure,
pipes crooning “shed what you carried.”
Doors open not with flourish
but a click clean as forgiveness—
privacy brief as weather but exile unknown.

If utopia anchors anywhere enduring, it burrows low—
between tile seam and tendon’s reach,
where compassion curls down drains
and returns agleam on porcelain lips.
Dignity gets re-piped dawn after dawn
in ceramic couplets;
lines spiral from trap-bend to vent-stack,
decency soldered where most never bother looking—
yet all must pass through.

I clear the drain
before it clogs,
snip stray strands
from your clothes
when you aren’t here.

I check the tin
of tea you forgot,
gather the curls
your comb left coiled
on the counter,
brush dust
from unopened things.

You may never know.
But love—
when it runs
up from the root—
needs no witness
to be profound.

Begin with reverence—
your edge,
a fine and fervent tongue,
a truth-beveled sliver of steel,
in trembling, fire-tempered hands.

Stand firm, dear blade,
in whispers and whetstone murmurs;
angle yourself acutely
to the grain of resistance,
to the grit and glide of infinite friction.
Embrace abrasion's symphony:
truths honed are always born
of fortitude's faithful dance.

Move evenly, lovingly—
a rhythm in wrist and marrow,
forward, bold, deliberate strokes
that shape both edge and essence,
with gentleness that knows
how tenderly fierce hearts hone themselves
from dull quietude to a vibrant gleaming
that dares the gaze of all who see.

Feel the grit, hold to the grit;
for pride is textured like stone:
coarse in its courage,
fine in compassion—
polishing prejudice to dust,
spirit to brilliance—
because you cut not with cruelty
but clarity.
Because mercy is a mirror-bright blade,
reflecting glances and truth alike,
not hidden behind reflection,
but held tender in its honesty—
a multitude of edges singing together.

Your hand, your heart, your blade,
forged in bright defiance,
will reveal itself on stone and steel—
a cutting truth, a kindness keen.
Sharpen until your edge
whispers like silk, sings with sunlight,
soft as moonlight pooled on placid waters—
dangerous and delicate
as intimacy's first confession,
a queer constellation etched
in courage and carved in light.

Never mind those who fear
the honest bite of message and metal;
let tenderness be your stone,
tenacity your true angle,
authenticity your blade’s bright stance.

This is the way we're whetted—
not to wound, but to widen space,
to stand true, to slice free
the stifling cloth of silence.
So sharpen, fiercely, lovingly,
with consideration and conviction,
with glittering grace—
honing your edge and your story,
forging you ever-shining,
queer, courageous, compassionate.