I can’t separate poetry

      from my life as a poet. 

      If that means loving you past devastation,

               so be it. If that means fucking

         you past devastation. So be it.

 

They say the revolutionary objective

        is to smash history but I want

to smash the mirrors 

       of history, the reality. 

 

I don’t want to kill myself.

     I want to kill the reification

      of my flesh, my flesh on the market

         hanging off hooks

  like the sides of animals

  dangling and cold. Maybe 

this is a pathological

      desire, a desire flowering 

and borne of Spring

          and maybe like 

           the Spring, wavering,

inside her new water, 

       she will leave us, for what use

is it to kill the dead?

 

But it is Spring right here

        at this moment which is the only

Spring the world has ever known

        and the only one 

     that is important

       right now.

 

Loving you is not reasonable.

            Moreover, it is dangerous.

And even more than that are so many of you

      just like those mirrors inside my body

            against my body on top of you

telling me that I’m not really you 

       but I am you and you know it.

 

My poetry is so unsentimental.

          This is due to the brutish 

way I was raised. It made my eyes

bluer, my senses keen

    like an animal intent

to survive the landscape

   of late capital. My poetry 

         is opposed to the world;

It is a performance against

     ideology and honor

       and the nation state

and the mask that I wear

is the performance is the mirror

     that I smash again and again.

 Some people call it self-destructiveness

but I call it love, statelessness,

   the anarchy of a flood of flowers. 

 

Fuck honor. My poetry

          is a shield against the crisis of honor

and I invite all of you to fight

      on this side of that shield

which is the side of love and reckoning

      and on the other side is an ocean

of technology, ignorance

 and fascist despair.

There is no honor 

       defending the nation state.

There is no honor 

         policing the nation state.

There is no honor

      in the patriarchy but it doesn’t matter

anyway because fuck honor

and the way we will fuck honor 

     is by making something so vulnerable

it will breathe in this Spring air

and breathe out some 

       tender fire like a dragon.

 

Maybe there is 

      honor right here

in bed with you, in the sheer rebellion

      of ransacking Eros himself, that con

man who draws

 me to you. I have dragged him through

      the drenched meadows 

of April and May,

     dragged him though

 that blue landscape

       in some humiliating display.

     Now that he has known love,

what will he do?

 

And afterwards, when it rains and rain

    and the city unfolds

like an apron or love letter or terrorism,

       I promise I will be with you

        whether you believe 

these words or not. 

 
Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter