justjasper:

queer thoughts in seven parts

forahorizon:

one


you called me a dyke when i was thirteen years old,

already pressing six foot tall, equally sized in my self loathing,

desperate for friends, and you, you looked to the

dr martens on my feet and called me butch.

i cried, and wondered if i had the word queer stamped

across my forehead, or if i smelt

too much like the pussy you assumed i loved.


two


i had sex with a girl i didn’t like because i knew at fifteen

that lesbians don’t grow on trees like straight girls do.

we bumped against layers of fabric in her single bed,

interrupted twice because her mother wanted to know

if her “new friend” was going to stay for dinner.


three


no, i don’t want to fuck your boyfriend with you.


four


i flicked through magazines and saw brightly coloured

combat boots, winking at me from glossy pages.

two, three, four months later and the girls

that sang “i kissed a girl” at me in my

maths lessons until i cried, they were wearing them.

for years i’d worn my boots like i was carrying a cross

but when all five foot six of pretty straight girl

strutted in front of me in them, now, suddenly, it’s fashionable.


five


no, i don’t just need to find the “right guy”.


six


i’ve sat in classrooms with people that i considered friends,

people that call themselves allies. people that then turn around

and say that a child needs a mum and a dad. babies

need someone of the same “sex” as them to identify with.

i want to call their bullshit freud theory the literal mother-fucking

bollocks that it is, but i simply do not have the energy.

it is not my job to tell a girl that thinks having gay friends is

“neat” what the difference between sex and gender is.

it is not my job to calmly try and convince these people that

they are talking about things they do not understand.


seven


the next time you squeeze your hand around your dick

on a website that’s address has both “lesbian” and “xxx” in it

remember my face when you told me you thought i was unnatural

remember my face when your eyes go white and roll back into your head

and i hope you feel bad,

i hope i ruin your orgasm

because you soiled my identity like the cum stains in your underwear.

because you are not my ally and i am not your friend.

this queer has a moan that can’t be silenced by a volume dial,

and it will never be yours to hear. 

cabbagingcove:

Today in History - April 20

Billie Holiday records Strange Fruit, 1939.

Noted as the first major rallying cry for the Civil Rights movement, Strange Fruit was a poem originally written by Abel Meeropol, and first performed by his wife and singer Laura Duncan, at protest venues in New York City. However, it wasn’t until Billie Holiday recorded the song for Commodore Records that it became a major hit.

Southern trees bear strange fruit, 
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root, 
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
 Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south, 
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, 
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh, 
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck, 
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, 
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop, 
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Image by TerryBlas
Biography at JAZZ: A Film By Ken Burns on PBS.