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.



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.

if everything is porn
then let your ears weep softly

Joshua Edward

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—eve

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.