some lesbian-centric literature

Hey guys, I found some awesome queer poetry and short fiction. Thought you might enjoy it. Sorry about the lesbian-centric content. :P I'm working on finding the boi-boi stuff, promises!


fuck you french girl
cigarette in hand
you look over at me, taking a drag, and say something in French
I can't understand but
i pretend i know

i laugh like the francophones smoking beside me
i smoke too - you offered - i said yes
(i want to want a cigarette without you offering so i can feel sexy
like you so i can have you

gripped to my skin, hairs clutching hairs,
skin mixing with skin)
smoke rings burst their poison like the windsor girl
salty, freshly mined, shipped and ready for "Export"

no, take your pack
i'll find someone who drives me just as wild
just as hot, just as nuts
as you

fuck you
your short french hair
fuck you
your strong france-french accent

fuck you
i just really
really
want to fuck you.


55 Word Fictions - She
It makes me sick to see you hung over this blonde in the back with her twig-on-a-stick boy. Right in the gut, that’s where it all happens: sex, digestion, hard love, and day-old, lost suppers. I’m trying to be loveabulimic - for my own sake – but this nausea, here, in my gut just won’t go away.

The classic-robin-blue, vintage convertible screeched down the winter road leaving tire marks, pot holes, and scattered soft shoulders along the way. The air was cold and forced the clouds to shiver, condense, and snow just to hide the tire marks. Then the snowploughs came dropping their salt to creep up the road like returning nausea.


TUNA FISH SANDWICHES
(side note: keep in mind female stereotypes/oppression)

You take to lunch a tuna fish sandwich
Drawn and quartered to share
with the buddies
in the junk yard.

“Pass that fish ‘round here Harold!
Y’ur ol’ bird makes a good fish san’wich she does!”

You get home that night,
Look your old bird up ‘n’ down thinkin’ ’bout the good fish sandwich
(tuna, celery, salted-butter, and mayo – your favourite)
and come to the conclusion that
she’s your chick o’ the sea.

Lock, stock, and two smoking barrels
Full of fish,
bullets,
lead based paint,
and poisoned eggs.

No caviar for Johnny
tonight.


She might have been pregnant...
She might have been pregnant, and she might have still been in love with her best friend, I don’t know because all I knew was that she glowed. She glowed from the inside. Not a pregnant glow like the she was scared of (a lesbian, pregnant and on birth control, automatic teen), an awkward, intelligent, drug-addicted glow with a sweet cloves-honey-and-cigarettes smell. That was her smell except for when she came back from the barn. And in those times she would smell like hay and horse shit and sweat and dust, but God did it smell good. She couldn’t have smelt any other way, because that was her life: horses and smoking. Smoking cigars, cigarettes, and dope; riding horses and ponies mostly sober. All of the lazy summer days on the forest green couch with no AC, only a ceiling fan to move hot air from top to bottom. Then she’d be damp, stoned, curly haired, and too tired to care whether it was poker-iron-board straight like she liked it to be. To tired to care whether she was in love with her best friend or not, because sometimes when she was that stoned it just didn’t matter; other times it would matter more than anything in the world, and that’s what I wanted to be: her best friend who mattered more than anything in the world. Couldn’t though. I didn’t (still don’t) do enough drugs or drive a beat up, old van.


YOU FEEL LESS GUILT THIS WAY
I need to turn my head
and recognize at least something

I need to turn my head
and hurl into that great big tent
purple
orange
green
& blue

chunks of cold corn flakes eaten early that morning
before I got on the bus and saw you.
That was when the nausea started.
That was when the tent hoisted up
all purple and orange
(the blue and green ones came up afterwards
when you turned to look at me in class,

Hey. How are you?
I’m ok (it’s a lie, it’s a lie).
Hah, I’m sooo stoned.
Aren’t you always? Wish I was, ha-ha!
Heh, ya.

, then turned around to talk to the others because it wasn’t as awkward to look at them as it was to look at me
and pretend you couldn’t feel my eyes on
You).


coffee coffee baby
warm nights and cold coffee on the burner turned off hours ago. 23 hours ago at 3am. closed the door, locked it for the hundredth count and heard a baby blues rock tune (hundredth counts are everywhere), called it out, just one more for the belt, but no one was around to hear it. they’re all sleeping or passed out. they’ll need the coffee later this morning.

stale, cold coffee sits in my Dilbert mug, irony and sarcasm relishing the coffee, makes it colder, gets stained by it. makes the sarcasm stronger. maybe Starbucks will come out with a new flavour to be my favourite. a new flavour shot to over-ride this bitter taste sensation : double sugar-free sarcasm shot, low-fat, low temp, no whip mocklée with the flare of a night cup. Dilbert and his witty speeches are my flare for these long-nighted months. 30 after 30. i’ve hit 30 while still in a 23-year-old body. 7 years ahead. years too tired. tired like the milk rings floating exhausted on the cold coffee. no, cold, old, 3am mocklée.

My poor rough nicotine nails tap the cracking ceramic rim to make a tinny sound. I want to make my way to bed now, then the shock of my new Starbucks favourite can’t keep me awake. I think of how great condo apartments are for their lack of stairs (lazy service at its finest) as I drudge myself in a shuffle to the bedroom and see a slender shoulder sticking out above the duvet and a flare of red curls riding up against the fake mahogany headboard.

As I climb in beside her the burner turns on and heats my cold coffee. My baby’s just so convenient.


FRENCH ALPS
Voulez Vous Coucher Avec Moi Ce Soir
She took me by the waist, pulled me a little closer, and buckled my legs like broken icicles so that I couldn’t help but fall on her lips, stinging with natural Botox. Despite the pain, my legs, being all melted ice, wouldn’t have allowed it besides.
There she taught me everything through a fumbling, clumsy mess of legs, lips, and arms while I made-pretend she thought I was perfect.

My Tender Peach
I looked down at you through the dusty, French morning sunbeams dozing above the pit of my arm. All I saw were your eyebrow hairs, each sticking up to make a cartoon forest. I counted them one by one and realized I could never think of that many reasons why I should keep you.
That was the morning of your birthday. You were twenty-five and just past your prime.

You Left For Burlesque
That roughly carved road comes straight from the mountains into Moulin, Auvergne. It is the same roughly carved road you drove down when I forgot to say Happy Birthday the year I saw cartoon forests in your eyebrows, and knew you’d become too ripe. The roughly carved road connecting downtown and uptown Moulin leads into nothing and is the same road you took when I didn’t say I’m sorry.