We're here!

We're here! We're queer! Get used to it.

I didn't know a wheelchair 

means no sexuality,

or gender,

or pride.

I thought it was me

that gets to decide,

not society

or my ride.

Hybrid piece with artwork

Wood Wide Web

Tw: describing queerhate

It's not contained inside

rectangles, inside screens,

inside minds, inside fire, 

inside comment sections,

inside hearts, black and blue,

and red and red and so much red

and they're laughing and we're dying,

and they're laughing more, 

spitting their words, spit on their faces,

and they're so angry because I'm not afraid, 

because I am angrier then they are ever 

going to be, because I am spiteful, because 

I am not dead yet, and I'm not even bruised.

Because we know how to survive, know

how to thrive, to grow, to blossom, and we

are plants, and flowers, and roots, and networks,

we are the Wood Wide Web, we still function 

buried, connection, communication, we warn,

we save, make space, find each other every 

fucking where, we heal, we reach, we hide,

we home, we feed, we are 

community and we are family 

and you can never get us all, so when I

say I survive because of spite, I mean,

in devotion to them.

Closet

Oh how they miss the good ole days!

The ways things used to be.

Life treated us so much better

and everyone was happy,

or so they claim.

Closets too used to be made 

of stronger material.

Oh the craftsmanship on those 

were quite exquisite!

Bring back 

that solid piece of furniture 

that held everything in,

including your next door neighbour 

and also possibly his wife.

Solid panels,

thick slab of wood,

hinges that hardly open,

double lock,

doors that are harder to move

than blocks of cement.

Hide your secrets in there,

hide your life,

hide yourself,

hide your future.

Forget to love.

Forget to breathe.

Forget to exist.

Forget to just be

because once you're in 

you can't come out.

“Bring back those good ole times!”

and this is what they mean.

The fervour of their mating call

reaches all the dark corners 

where those ‘good ole day’ people 

had their wintersleep.

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson 

Sometimes I dream 

That I'm the next Emily Dickinson.

What an easy dream to have

when every day feels like dying.

I take my pen up 

and with delicate care,

one pinky in the air like 

I'm drinking fancy tea,

start writing

the most beautiful thing 

I have ever seen.

The sungod will make his track 

across the sky.

My body will be still 

because my mind is not.

And if I forget to drink, 

that's fine.

If I forget to eat,

my words will nourish.

I am racing against daylight,

keen to win.

My ears hear

how my pen scratches the paper

and my skin feels the warmth of 

lines of light moving across my body.

I feel too, the indents my body are making 

on the chair I've grown into.

Oh how real it feels!

When I die,

people will suddenly find

the boxes of poetry I created.

A treasure trove 

ready for travelling the world.

People will be sad that

they didn't know me

but I won't be forgotten.

Another type of living death 

than the one I'm currently living.

Knowing I will be found

keeps me company in this tomb.

Mountain

Mountain 

I'm on a mountain. Faraway from everything. A remote and singular destination in the back of people's mind. Not in the world, but around. Not of it, but related to.

From a perch I see everything and nothing all at once. The view far reaching and yet too distant to see anything. There's not a single way in which I can breach the gap. I've stayed up here too long anyway and I've frozen to death.

The night offers solitude over my cold body. The moonlight still doesn't fail to wake me yet warmth it will not offer. That's ok. I die faster during the day. Isn't that surprising?

____________

Opgesloten

Opgesloten 

In de waarheid

opgesloten

en van de wereld

ontnomen,

levens dat de

hartslag niet zien

van de wereld

waarin

we leven.

Zachte pulseringen

op zijn plek

waarin wij

ons verstek

met connectie

laten zien.

Verstoppertje.

“Ik tel tot 10!”

Het zoeken

zijn we vergeten.

Is het dat 

we het niet weten

of dat we het

niet weten willen?

Hmm.

Ik verveel me.

Niet enkel omdat 

ziek zijn het enige is

wat ik ben.

Dat is kattepis 

in vergelijking 

met de pijn 

van weten dat 

mij hier alleen laten zijn,

mij hier achterlaten

om te vergaan,

een bewuste keuze is 

voor mijn bestaan.

Ik ben gewend 

aan kreperen, 

de pijn dat eeuwig

blijft pulseren.

Maar desinteresse 

is altijd desillusie. 

De wereld

mist mij niet.

Put

Put

Soms wou ik dat mijn creatieve kant 

de weg naar mijn kamer verloor. 

Net als mijn verstrooide gedachten 

links gaat in plaats van rechtdoor.

Nu stroomt mijn inspiratie 

langzaam uit mijn oor.

Waar ben ik in godsnaam

een kunstenaar voor?

Ik ben een dichter die amper dicht.

Een tekenaar zonder potlood.

Mijn papier blijft wit en leeg.

Mijn ziel niet langer bloot.

Ik ben een dichter die niet dicht.

Een schepper zonder schepping.

Mijn put is uitgedroogd 

en mijn leven is uitputting.

Nee,

Mijn put is uitgedroogd 

en mijn leven leven heeft zo geen zin.