Opening from a pamphlet that shows the “Sea Concert” (conducted by the Polish artist Edward Krasinski). The pamphlet documents Tadeusz Kantor’s Panoramic Sea Happening, which took place at the Polish seaside town of Osieki in 1967. -ds


Opening from a pamphlet that shows the “Sea Concert” (conducted by the Polish artist Edward Krasinski). The pamphlet documents Tadeusz Kantor’s Panoramic Sea Happening, which took place at the Polish seaside town of Osieki in 1967. -ds

Reblogged from grupaok with 248 notes / Permalink

for queer youth

it may not get better, and it may get worse, or you’ll get stronger, or you’ll
make it better. maybe heaven is 21 and free in a gay bar: just kiss his lips, love.

we didn’t dream of anal sex, or fisting, and dental dams, rainbow flags and miller lite,
christina aguilera on that stage, all we hoped for first, was love.

because if i could, id take her hand in mine, id spin her out, hold her in,
rock her back and forth, hips all around mine, dont worry love, love.

for you, i asked a beautiful queer theorist for her favorite words–sticks
and stones may break my bones–for you he gave only one, love.

because queer runs down and around your tongue, fits so naturally,
like it should always be there. my hand in yours. that’s how we know love.

they say we’re different because our index fingers longer. hypothalamus brighter.
science vs. romance. little do they know, how to quantify and fabricate love, love.

our paper hearts. though woman or man don’t translate well into this fragmented
world of mine–made of ventricles, blood and pump—only love, even if broken, love.


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I will ice on my black side
and steam on my other
when I float by suns.

Reblogged from dailyholzer with 27 notes / Permalink

at the thought of you


i gut fruit with my mouth

push tongue into black belly of papaya

peel lychee with teeth

bite into ripe pear

suck on stone of mango

all of this, over the kitchen sink


middle of winter

sticky hands pushing hair away from face

moaning into sweet flesh

the whole time

your name flat against the roof of my mouth

–Warsan Shire

Reblogged from manon-de with 5 notes / Permalink

Elegance of Surprise


It’s about now when things stop
making sense three a.m. you and I, a taxi
San Francisco streets.

In the back seat I’m humming
the pulse of the city like the thin cross—
hatch of wires that fly by the window—
a secret code I can’t quite decipher
because dawn is lurking to the right
of the corner gas station.

Patient as the street lights that guide
our way home, you’re murmuring
directions and I imagine
your hand on my thigh. I think of how
we kissed in the blue-lit bar, how nothing
ever turns out the way they do in romance
novels, more like a Dali painting—
objects dripping out of reality
into strange and lonely space.

But in an hour, I find your unfamiliar body
explaining itself under my fingers.
I realize something about the elegance of surprise
as morning arrives wordlessly
light breaking over abandoned streets
with the simplicity of a story that’s told
again and again and again

— tamiko beyer

Reblogged from motherground with 18 notes / Permalink


after Nan Goldin’s “C putting on her make-up at Second Tip” 1992

because double::
your high cheekbones trill
at the glass edge under
the perfect brush

because artifice::
the secret of hips when in heels
one foot placed in front of the other
makes sway don’t say
tightrope say
silk say along a single hair
say dust motes in stage lights

because desire because
performance because transformation::
touch me here and here and here
my caught breath at your face’s turn
and we move, a stunned symmetry

because gender becomes water
becomes body becomes mirror::
to learn the camera’s tricks
press light onto film
makes shapes almost real

because what makes me
the body dancing
twin beyond blue smoke
a woman with arms that
bend like light


"Between Body Between Mirror," Tamiko Beyer (via commovente)

Reblogged from commovente with 213 notes / Permalink

The Rainy Season

Loosens mud.
Now, it’s all sex—
green heads, buds,
the spider trembling
in her web.

You pull your bright red thread.
I hear the tiny bird
call out its slim territory:
sediment, sediment, sediment.

Sweet, the river
rolls and rolls,
such skin
for the thorn-bush grows.

When we whip
like this in wind
our bodies’ kite thrills.
Quick—pin tight
the double knot,
recite the alphabet
and climb up
the diamond tree—

it’s all panorama
and bark-scraped knees,
love, from here on out.

Tamiko Beyer

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Meet Me in Copenhagen

I woke up and it was sunny, and I heard the birds
The only sort of morning I wake up leaping from my sheets
There was that moment between awake and 
the places you’ve only been to in your dreams
I lingered there

and I could still feel the burns
smell the ash
the remnants of the electric fire
of your skin on mine
your breath hot in my ear
filling me up like smoke
So engulfed, too far gone
No turning back

as the flames lick at my flesh
And I moan, a new moan
a sound never made before
a growling from somewhere untapped
a new song
in a new city

a film reel plays, fading slowly
short, sweet
vignetted in vaseline 
Your soft pink tongue 
born from your soft red lips
ravenous, hungry,
buried deep
my hips

Reblogged from fuckyeahqueerpoetry with 9 notes / Permalink

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(Source: scorpiondagger)

Reblogged from yvessaintlowrent with 23,668 notes / Permalink

I’m Not Like the King of Black People by Morgan Parker


I’m sorry I don’t
know why I like
grape soda or how
my hair got like this

I couldn’t tell you
where the watermelon
thing came from

I’m what
you don’t swallow
the glossy dark

I read somewhere
my folks used to be princes
Their earrings were
pulled out
in their sleep

Then one day
they woke up

Reblogged from blackcontemporaryart with 282 notes / Permalink