if everything is porn

then let your ears weep softly

there are many

men

wincing at women on the

train

one picks his nose

he reads

on over her shoulder

Anyway

what I was really thinking

about

was the amount of times

you

said douche

babes

and whilst

i am mostly scared for your

anus

i am also

bewildered by my inherent stupidity?

like how do you stand up without

hitting

skull on cold fresh cement

twelve blinding lights

in perfect tracks to perforate the innards

and eyes which say

21 21 21

Anyway someone

went missing in the ocean?

he was an artist

he liked the slant

and to fall

“All is falling”

made me

falling!falling!falling

rolling

“My body is practicing being dead”

slipping nightly

i think

eileen said also

we practice death

daily

here it is

wooshing

& cloud

Anyway

she said hands

these hands

are old (maybe 32)

creased chalky paper

she says

what cream helps

i say:

accepting your reality helps most

Anyway

the rich gays take PrEP

& now there’s a party dedicated to

them

freed from fear

rabinous gays thrash about

shoving their dicks in

everything

because imagine

rather

—erase

the epidemic and remember to

make nancy proud

have fun

the door person

is winking

and saying

“consent”

Anyway

if we can

just revisit death for a moment

there was a party on a

burner boat

but the very aggressive but hot

door

made the hosts

who weren’t aloud into the party

sign an NDA

about the sinking boat

and it’s burner origins

it read:

ciao

DO NOT

refer to the boat

as a burner boat

Anyway eroticism

can be

the passenger next door

who sleeps

pushing their

thigh against yours

small death

eight-am

what do you dream of?

Anyway

someone is throwing some

tired berlin party with

some tired berlin dj

with some tired berlin door policy

&

to be frank if I want to be fisted

id stay home and do it to myself

&

don’t get me started

on

the belts and buckles

Anyway

a queer poem is

ahhh ahh

jk jk

hmmmmph

wya?

lmao

a queer poem

is whatever you’re not

Anyway,

Syphilis

is

literally eating

my dick

better than any lover

has

soft pink

Anyway,

I am falling

again

small tumble

and

promise for now

Anyway,

we leave that behind

somewhere

&

how easy it is to forget to love

you

being swallowed

regardless

& who is

there

but body

wrapped in gauze

shredding teeth

do you like me                         

though?

waiting for the next

hurt

to blame here.

the world moves and u move and u think

this is pain now

this is rage

and you wonder where

fragments fall

and how to collect them

for you

Anyway,

people say reading is

hard

i agree it’s hard to read

a whole book

like the whole damn thing?

just sit there and read it

i want to be surrounded by so many books

my favourite words

pick them up

read that page again and again

put them down

& never know how it ends

Anyway,

I’m eating

one meal

a day

affection

is starving.

Anyway,

I don’t like

seeing women who remind me

of my

mother

riding the train alone

I wonder where she

goes

in her house shoes

what she thinks about

she picks her fingers

and that is home

her eyes are

old

violent

but unintentionally

blue

Anyway,

where are those small kisses

whispering kisses

at night

like breathing at sleep

kisses that hover above every

part

Anyway,

old lady on train

Two

makes me want  to

hug my mum

there’s

something so devastating about strong women

powerful bodies

power to create everything and destroy nothing

and yet fading all the same

so much fear in there

fear of a world which has

Co Opted her strength

but it is there

still

Anyway

walk outside

kiss the sky

and say it also is beautiful

for this day

it is wet in your mouth

New York

is not made for love

or maybe

different love  

but not big love

love spent

days upon days

gazing at its sheer magnitude

reading its extensive texts

Knowing it

well

in New York

there is a meeting at

10

and love must come

before or after

but not both

love

is a salary

taxed and taxing

in New York

you do not just get

to walk up

kiss love on the forehead

and sit for a while

eight million

and nothing left over

Anyway,

when you (all)

kiss my

neck and chest

i think this is small heaven

for now

to feel the air

out of nose

pushed into

the crease

of my collar

there are street corners where

kissing is made

at night

sweet & acidic mouths

amazing,

how little you need to know

to know and be unknown

to unknow and be known

what makes someone unmissable?

rooms filled with dawn and bodies and something—

divine.

Anyway,

B & i

we like to have a drink

at night

once all the caffeine

has worn off

we — sleepy

sip

honey and liquor

talk of things

made

and un—made that day

of lovers

past, present & future

about the parts of the day which poured out

and others which drag to agonising halts

and then good night

and dreams of making

the day to

sit with you again.

Anyway,

dyke jeans at the coffee shop

morning of

afternoon,

it has become my time

three coffees approaching— four

i’ve settled for being present as opposed to actively,

liked

i have seven dollars and no job

to have no job in New York

is to be pointless without charm         

—shit what will people talk about if not their jobs?

dating in New York

is gagging on the dick

of

neoliberalism

whereas in Melbourne

the measure of success is really, how you manage to maintain your doll payment in conjunction with as little work as possible

in all honesty this is

far

more interesting than any job anyone has had—ever.

dirty glorious whiteness

ichikawa lee

my pores were quite—clogged

ground salt

garnished my forehead squeezed lemon on the coast

—“duh...”

eye roll / short sigh

clogged

“oysters are vegan... just have one already”

she looked ‘perfect’

of course

and showed the adequate amount of interest

in me

as to not be rude, or to at least say with confidence ‘I tried with them, I swear’

of course

yes, sure, if you insist

I’ll have three glasses of your finest rosé

as Ferrari daddy slips and trips

gin pouring over her chest

can you hear that old money

drip

drip?

we were on a rooftop—pretending

behind the darkest tint

swipe, brightness down,

low power mode: on

pretending

somber eyes lens-protected—watching

gelati shop owners

powdered noses

blow-waves

swollen ankles

artists interrupted

for the herald sun photographer can a photograph really capture all that is

the bourgeois

sunset draped

in colour, an other

washed in this— dirty—glorious—whiteness

downhill

joshua edward

I recall you as a small piece of

punctuation

like a form on the soil in the earth which perplexes and ogles

you can’t move but stare and shift

—you’re shifting between it overwhelmed by some glamour, I don’t mean to say it’s beautiful but it is glamorous

and I think

you!

there!

soil drying in the sun, do I talk here?

do I have the mouth

and if yes, then how and what

what would you tell me?

is there something I’m sorry for

or am I just ashamed of the inconsistency I’m reconciling

you know... apologising to move past the

soil

sweating over it and the tawdry time

but here’s the thing—

there’s so much soil

to erode before your reach the base

& with all that earth behind you

—you’re stuck

in the cavernous earth scab

perhaps you lay down breath in the dust

and feel nostalgic for the soil

yet it is there, and full of you you are

empty

chest of soil

of nothing

of base and

how many times can you fracture— puncture

pull up the terra in to you

and around you

like death asks and wants & there’s men with noses so large

they’re pushing your hands and fists into their flesh

and it is soft for a while

calm but it is always slightly more putrid each time

and you said you regret that you almost killed your sister

asleep and she was too—

and you love her

you say in an intimate way

horrifically you wait for purpose.

if the end of one’s youth is a thin slice

of cheese i ate mine standing in that room

joshua edward

everything was pretty yellow

the sky and your heart

—and probably mine was too sitting there

sweating over books & limited time

wine

& cheese

& bread

has made me almost as happy as you do well—that is too glasses

three—four and i’ll be a tool in the morning

and you might hate me

do you ever wonder if you’ve really fucked it? you know—

you’re looking at the ceiling

a straight couple

probably discussing their engagement

sleeping very comfortably adjacently

now i’ve stopped paying attention

body snatched

hair laid to rest

rip

that’s how i like

it wet

soily

cigarettes smell like toasted crumpets

i’d wondered if i’d ever love someone the way

i loved you

and i probably hadn’t

i mean you can’t love someone

the same way you’ve loved

another

i got the explicit sense you were

afraid of that word

—though

and would therefore say:

care

care is more frightening than love to me

because i am hard to care for

and

i wasn’t even sure how

your cool speckled eyes

could

or if they did

why

the streets here smell like

adolescents

like bubbles through a foil sleeve

riverside parkways

cat said i should get a bum bag

everyone has one here

she says:

even people who aren’t cool have them

so i did

wanted to hold eileen at the club

i liked looking at your face smoking

eyes darting

hands darting

mouth darting

figuring you

i keep thinking about crying

like in a masturbatory way

but it doesn’t come

and i remember you giving me head in a

tent when we were sixteen

and you’re dead now

fresh steel wrapped around the base

and the sent of eucalyptus

hot in that morning

your mum still writes you on facebook

i think it’s a kind of séance

i can’t

imagine sitting in that pale twilight

like she does

and i wonder how i could have earned

you with such false tragedies

clichéd romantics

finding yourself somewhere between

having and loss is a lagging loop—

being not with or without

and how do you dislodged—ungraft a patch

of something alien?

and you said you need to own yourself,

your body and the hairs on it

they are yours

depression is a parent stuck somewhere

between envy and warning

i am feeling particularly attuned to the

Sadness that sits behind the eyes of

people on the street recently, and more

concerningly there is a personal

voidence there.

i think they remind

me of my—

mother

and i think about her death, of the

harsh delicacy of things with age.

i think of what is worth reconciling

concessions made for her

traumers

passed to children

things said, and meant and then un-meant

Having a cold is like lateral violence for the chronically ill.

04.23.20

Joshua Edward

you remind me of my father

it was the mustache originally

but I can’t remember if you have it anymore…

and maybe that’s why fucking was odd

and they don’t ‘care’ that I smoke but I think they kind of do but love me anyway

and when you told me off it was kind of exhilarating, I thought this is what my parents should think but don’t or did but no longer do.

regardless, there is something very endearing about being made naughty—childish and caught.

To be made bad, it means someone cares that you acted a way—or something? The tulips are tight and I say, I prefer them restless, in figures of dancing leaves just before they…. exhale.

I don’t know why I am always wanting everything to be elegant, and by that I mean teetering on the edge, kind of messy but in their place and just that: if it was a vase encasing a floral arrangement it would sprawl everywhere and finally bow it’s head a little,

there is also, something very elegant about room temperature food, like sandwiches or hard boiled eggs.

Elegance is by itself with nothing extra, nothing added. The way it is— perfect, sprawling, forever.