crappy until almost sunset

Managed not to sleep the entire day away but that hardly constitutes an accomplishment.

two blonde caucasian children pose on a balcony in Scarborough in 1964
europeans don’t understand why we don’t bury our hydro poles – a winter dawn
Paul in profile during a foggy day at the Quay
a furball named Miss Margot
although it looks shiny here it’s now been on my front porch so long it no longer has any colour

not in public

saw a typo so egregious I was moved to type:

fix the typo or face the unreckonable fullness of my colon and my spleen

such horrific vistas are mine to conjure, these words are the sand of my playspace

Now normally when one is trawling the internet, one leaves typos alone. There are variants on alone, such as private messaging, where you can address someone out of the glare.

But when it’s a newspaper, nope, no holds barred.

poem- stop and start

find feeling and follow
the words, a parallel furrow
dug into the body
not to wound but to attest
that this event has meaning
drawn beyond the geophysics
marks my marrow
||interpret these lines||

poems about motherhood
and hardly any about
how it is an alien occupation
shifting tissue into your brain

yes, truly, I am centred in my frame

/mark these deletions
they are where I was brute
and woman
no one wants it/

trust the body
connect this breath to that word
and make that spider thread
a braid of wonder

pots a boiling / listing

another bad mental health day yesterday, but Peggy, despite her gammy knee, dropped by with pie and after Jeff and I LITERALLY DEVOURED IT STRAIGHT OUT OF THE CONTAINER, we used forks thank god, he said is there more like I had hidden some (where? in my ass crack?) and I said alas no, because that strawberry rhubarb pie was among the best I ever et.

Xeni Jardin on twitter, May 23 2020

I learned during cancer that it is important to be mindful of the possibility that these might be the normal good old days. There is no guarantee of relief or a happy outcome. None whatsoever. Paradoxically, through practicing acceptance of this truth, I finally found peace.

I’m trying to combat the listlessness with lists. I’m listing to the left on this one. Listerine is not on the list. Allistics are not on the list (just in case you don’t know, this is non-autistic people when autistic people are talking about them and Jeff you were looking for this word the other day as I recall.) Calisthenics are definitely on the list – in fact I can Zoom in to my former exercise classes, if I used Zoom, which I don’t – Skype is my limit on that shit. I quit Skype. It’s listenable but they took on a right wing air hog in a multi million dollar deal so I delisted them from my credit card expenses. A klister is NOT on the list. Becoming a phallist is not on the list… I mean, I’m a fan, but not a stan, if you know what I mean. Should I put being a homilist on the list? I asked twitter to give me hints for writing a new homily as a writing prompt. I paid to go virtually to WisCON and didn’t even watch a panellist. I could stand to see a decent cemballist, but finding one that’s a decent stylist might be difficult, especially if they’re an atonalist. Am I emblematic as a personalist? I could be, if I wasn’t also being such a damned diabolist.¬† I can’t keep walking through each day like a somnambulist.

Desperately seeking completely unchallenging non grimdark shows

We found Time Team on Acorn and I personally am loving it; I think Jeff’s coming along to be sociable.

Spoke to Mike yesterday, as that poem likely reveals. He doesn’t want to see me because he’d just die if he got me sick.
This is our world. The best want to save me, and the rest want to avoid wearing masks with passionate intensity.

Anyway, I’m crying my little eyes out right now, and that’s a good thing, because I’ve been bottling it up for weeks and there’s shit worth crying over. Also, there’s shit worth not crying over, like 4 pm Saturday at Peggy and Tom’s we’re going to attempt to sing again. CAUSE IT WORKED SO WELL LAST TIME LOL we just talked and that was fucking fine thank you.

I feel really sorry for all the people affected by Typhoon Amphan. I don’t understand why that ratfucker Modi hasn’t declared a state of emergency? It is an emergency, the photos and video coming out of the Bay of Bengal and Kolkatta are just heart wrenching.

There are so many trans people on Twitter trying to get away from toxic home environments and begging for money that’s another reason to cry. I remember sitting with Paul and talking through what we’d do if we had a trans kid, and we agreed to love and support our trans kid, but no surgery until they were legally adult. I think we may have huffed the puberty blockers decision but I know we wouldn’t if we had to do it again today.

The four brings of allyship

poem ‘phone call’

A video call is too hard

I don’t have what it takes to manage it
and his laptop’s never booted up
work has eaten every moment

my outgoing text: Call me when
you have the opportunity and energy

I reach out with





better to do this



Finally, as the depression grinds through its portion
of his brain, and barfs up his attention span, he calls back
and I say I don’t judge you for making me wait

it’s like crossing the road in wild traffic
you must wait for your moment and dash

will the world
still be there
when the scramble for now is over

poem ‘the open tap’

fantastical lights from faraway places
retain their moment in time and I mine
settling myself into the gendered slurry
that is English

those lights
candles for my bath
as I stub the life from this lepisma saccharina

here’s a snapshot
it will be six months later
during a pandemic
when I finally stir myself
to clean up its corpse

grey in life, grey in death
almost indistinguishable from the grout

I can’t write today, I can’t
I’m a mote, should be mute, a little scrotey
blemish on the terrifying backside of English letters
all jealousy, a tunnel through inadequacy
reaching up through all this debris
for a garden of kindness
a shield against the noise

a mask

over the top of my face
years ago I got the plague mask
years ago

and on the bottom of my face
a white rectangle, broken into diamonds
a fabric diamond on my face
I never had one for my hand
I am a metagraph of ‘something into something else’

my mind and my DNA

once I had a face and now
because I love you
I do not


things I hate about other people’s fanfic


saying it’s your first one.


Tyops S o amny tyops  Please poofread your gay works

Insufficient tags or TOO MANY

Changing how you do paragraphs in the middle of the fic.

NO CLOSE QUOTES o god I hate that so much