Category: brooklyn

“The Best Lover” – Charlotte Joyce Kidd

Twin_Blouse

I think the best lover would be really scared of dying. They would come home early every night. They would never bike in a busy city, never drive at all. They would never jaywalk. They would never do drugs—maybe pot once in a while but only on a couch, between four walls, when they’d checked the forecast and there was no chance of natural disaster. They wouldn’t drink too much, make enemies, ever go off their anti-depressants. Even when they stopped being mine, I wouldn’t have to worry. There would be no chance of disappearing endings, of being left holding feelings severed at one end.

I think the best lover would want to spend all their time with me. They wouldn’t be able to imagine anything else they’d rather be doing. They’d hold my hand while they went to the toilet. We’d reuse the toothpaste foam. When we’d walk in public, they’d tangle their fingers in my hair, palms not enough, scalp warmer, closer to bone, closer to brain. They’d cancel their Saturday nights, make every hour 8 a.m. Sunday, when together is unthinking. They’d sit behind me in my classes. They’d finish my sentences in therapy. They would text me once an hour just to tell me a joke.

I think the best lover would have a million lives, so that each time they fell out of love with me they could be reborn. They would walk in the door of the night they first met me, look around. They would come up and say hi, knowing nothing yet.

 

these words by Charlotte Joyce Kidd were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“Les fauves” – Jenna Jarvis

matisse_girls2

 

in 2014 sally hansen replaced its beloved pacific blue with a shimmery doppelgänger
of the original to the consternation of nail polish fans on instagram and makeupalley

that year a girl said jewel tones
couldn’t be smoky like
queer uniform wasn’t an oxymoron

a devoted winter i wore cobalt
wondered why women trusted
beauty guides insisting

via goethe that most people
of colour are winters but transitional
seasons get fucked anyway

now i’m supposed to choose a name
in chinese like it’s middle school
whether in language class

or on a forum roleplay
remember habbo hotel giggling
a room of 13-year-olds pretending

they’re just one & a little older
a dyadic encounter

when cyber meant tweens’
incumbent nomenclature

in 2004 burger king launched subservientchicken.com an early viral marketing campaign
featuring text commands hyperlinking to clips of a person in garters and a chicken suit

obviously we typed in sex
got a wagging finger not thrills
later summer basement laughter

stifled unlike the spread
thigh under that first skirt
black & baby-goth despite august

truth is the only
frying we did was vocal

 

these words by Jenna Jarvis were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“Checkmate” – Manahil Bandukwala

centaurette

You enter a room with a checkered floor, a chessboard sprawling outwards. Your side is just you; on the other is a jester, a devil and a centaurette with a gun. You have no weapons. You don’t know the rules. The game is stacked against you before it begins.

White starts. The jester advances forward five spaces.

Black’s turn. You feel behind you for the doorway you entered through, but it’s not there. The only way to move is forward. You brace yourself to run, and smack against air. Staggering back, you find yourself a space ahead of where you were. Only one square at a time for you. A bruise starts to form on your cheek.

White. The devil moves to stand on your left side, brushing your leg with its pointed tail.

Black. You take a step forward and the devil moves with you but doesn’t touch you. There is a window across the room, your only way out. You count the number of steps to the mountains outside. Three. If you survive even one more step forward, it’ll be a miracle.

White. The centaurette cocks her gun and shoots. The bullet flies between your legs and goes cleanly through the wall behind. She gallops forward and stops two squares in front of you, right in front of the window. Her smile teases you to come forward and take her crown; she knows all the rules to the game and you’ve only figured out one.

Black. You stick to your plan. One square forward—the devil moves too. The jester dances around outside confines of boxes.

White. Nothing. They’re waiting.

Black. The window is almost there, but the centaurette sits spread across the tiles.

White. A shadow belonging to no one flits across the wall. Everyone jumps in surprise, including the centaurette. The square in front of you is empty.

Black. You leap forward and jump out the window, falling past storeys until you hit the ground. Glass rains over you, cutting into your skin. You hear a faraway giggle echo through the trees. You are a lump of flesh lying in a bush on a riverbank. The river snakes through the landscape, washing your blood away.

 

these words by Manahil Bandukwala were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“I’ve got to make it show” – Jeff Blackman

Holy_Hell_WebV

The place we were reared in was a safe place
but we spoke hard words. We ached for war.
As for me: I was baser than that—I claimed a cause.
A teen brushing their mouth
of consensus, awe and doubt.

We place demands in our prayers
as if we place ourselves in G-d’s path.

Off rhyme of my joy and FML.
An off rhyme—that’s all.

Our rubbish mounts within a big frame
we colour key to pride and shame.
We fasten to the architecture
like a file that’s been saved.
We’re sure that we’re saved.

Our heaven may be a small heaven
but come now—the gate’s ajar.

In time you forget you’re faking it.
Resign. Be calm.

 

Miza Coplin‘s Holy Hell inspired Jeff Blackman‘s rough parody of Randy Newman’s adaptation of Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time”

“Spread” – Sarah Christina Brown

Le_Joie_De_Vivre_1000

This is a found prose poem – all lines are dialogue spoken by women in porn films.

I would never describe myself as a bad girl. I’m eager to please. I’m too tight. I’m too tired. I’m eighteen. I’ve never even had a massage before. It’s my first time. It’s the last time. It’s the only time I can do something like this. This is my first real job. This is what I’m here for. What are you doing with that camera again? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to stretch me open? Does your wife suck your cock like this? Did you drink all the fucking orange juice? If you hire me, I’ll make sure my pussy’s spread open right here every lunch break. But I’m your stepmom. But you’re my boss. But you’re my best friend. But I’m the goddess of big dick, I don’t want any more grapes. I want a full-time position. I want you answering my calls from now on. A girl like me plans to get behind the camera someday. A girl like you could learn a few things from my tongue. We girls have to stick together, you know. I tell men they’re going to think about me the rest of their lives. I told you, it’s Titty Tuesday. Don’t you want to touch me? Can you finish me off? Shut up, Gerard, you know I deserve this. Don’t be shy. I’m coming. She’s coming. Give me my happy ending. Give it to me. Give it to me.

 

these words by Sarah Christina Brown were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin