Capricorn Hot Polarity

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i'm really lost.
not open lost, not like, on the surface, in the middle, lost
something deep, a heavy lost.
some things throw me.


"stop, fag."


that cold invective, that brute force, sweeping,
pushes through my heart like muscles don't matter, like tendons don't matter,
like i don't know, like i got it wrong
oh fuck




this is the problem:


is love the thing that saves it from mattering?
it being
being, or are/am/ising, you know, existing.
is it love that, when all limp wristing stereotypes are used up
in the jerk and rub of constructing masculinity, when they pile up the
faggots, the fairies, the fruits,
the decorated, soft, nellies, pansies, poofs,
when they pile them up, make mountains of skulls,
soft corpses leaking ironic semen
once the fags have served their purpose and
leave scrubbed chests clean from weakness,
when they've made themselves against the queers,
is love the thing that saves us, and it, from meaning?
does it matter, then, when identity is formed from beating up a fucker,
a taker, when you form yourself against the weakness of another?
is it safe to lie inside the body a lover?
or is each faggot burning brazen like an ember
some stark symbol of potential to remember?

Is each word, each sickened feeling, clenched jaw and action reeling
each step away from stepping and each toe curled up in kicking,
is each  identity brought about through sticking
faggots on a pile, and like books before them, burning?

and love, is love the only thing
that nullifies that fearing?

Fuck, man, when you make yourself against your mother,
do you have to strike a pick against your younger brother?
Are we even brothers? Are we even bare related?
are you built so strictly and so densely that all not-you is hated?

and the context of this flighty contradiction?


inside me fight two spirits; two ghosts, both chromatic simulacra, both
false-false, both acted, both acting for the actor,
20 points for answering out loud
which is the winner
man tears at not-man, ghost-on-ghost,
the man on faggot sinner
the dirt against the dirty
the arm against the art
the white strings of masculinity, the womby tomb, the dark
even language, even wording, is set up to rig the fighting
fuck, man, you've got to have an edge
when you've co-opted all the lighting
i am alone, and thus my question:
is it love that stops it meaning?
what counts for masculinity
and what accounts for feeling?

trite, perhaps, but, fuck, man, can
you hunt me out an answer?
or is it something known, perhaps, and
left alone, like that sissy dancer?
what a faggot, right?
What a fucking poofter?
yeah. right. I guess, I'll fuck it,
leave it, leaking substance in the corner.

or, perhaps, when no other man is looking
i'll sit with him, touching heads, our fingers hooking,
talk, quiet, of being earnest, and of his ersatz markedness
of understanding everything,
of dreaming love up in the darkness.




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