Queer Brown Pop

The way I’m coveted with you – this slut theatre.
Fan-Girl lollipops alongside my breast.
Determined bile alongside yours.
I’m not queer or white enough for you.
Make you sick.

 
Make you cum.
Still not enough for the squeak of outrage
That you bring to every table.

 
Throwing spears at the butterflies who stroke me
under the burnt orange cloth your mother gave you.

 
Your skin glows with impressions.
History & divine sex hymns.
Somewhere your disaproval matters.
But not in my leather boots & catholic
eyes.

 
Arse bumping and dripping against
everything, as I fly my lust to two-something
in the morning and I fuck and fuck.

 
Disappointed when I smell it’s you

 
and not that cute blue-haired cunt
that licked my fingers like honeyed bees
And trembled

 
while

 
I screamed a slave Madrigal. Blessed
In five pop-up galaxies, even my hair betrays
you, turning brittle, wiry & saltash in breath.

 
An acid drop moment scours your grid
Nothing sticks except your white wanting.

 

Ruby Answari  is 37 & ¾. A Queer Retro Muslim – Afghan 1970’s, they describe themselves as “Not Popular” and a “Twat Poet”. Political message? Fuck the veil. That.

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