THE LOW DOWN NIGGA CALLS MY GLOW A FAGGOT by Golden

i.

 

My rubber cackles in the darkest closet of his attic.
Until my scrunched diaphragm is weak

 

at his cockeyed shaft. He think he a sharp shooter,

darting at me with all this teethless talk.

 

But I seen’t the way he comes

out at night. Abased jaw ajar

 

waiting for slobber. Pants down

to the brim of his ankles // His whole body molts

 

when I ain't one of his quiet toys. When I bend just inside
the grasp on his frame. There ain't no surprise

 

why he don’t pull out his knot & stretch me

over his gizzard mouth yet. He loves

 

everything he is. Too infatuated with his own sweat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ii.

 

Low down niggas love to call me

out my name. Forget they used to chase me

 

‘round the block / hunt me down

in their bedrooms. He says grown

 

like he know what that is. Like age ain't nothin

but some extra bone & dead

 

skin. He licked the static off

my shine last week. Head in high praise

 

as my nectar dribbled down his throat.

I can still smell my dew on his hardwood

 

floors, on his burlap altar,

on his blasphemous breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iii.

 

He claims to know me better than my shadow does;

 

I made a sun from my shade & This nigga ain't neva been
my “daddy”. He ain't even been the perspiration

 

on Jesus’s brow. He ain't neva been a name /

dominates nothing but dust bunnies. A nigga

 

puts his mouth on your spout & thinks he becomes

what you prayed for. // Forgets I defy

 

gravity, Forgets I push the air when i slide in

the room, Forgets I love

 

to tell God what he didn't do right

the first time. He pulls my string

 

so he think he owns this breathe. Assumes

I float for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

vi.

 

I never swallow to live. I duttay-wine with the moon

& suns shower me in Golden

 

Orchards when their bones are stiff & ripe. I am that nigga
with no hunger // that bitch who lives past dusk

 

& dirt. You wish you could

annihilate me / split me down the arc of my spine

 

I am the fetish boys try to wash off

their third eye. You a flaming flamingo,

 

a scorched banshee, a howling martini

of bursting driftwood. You throat

 

deep like me. You’ll stay hooked: backbone wired, hung

to the corner of your closed casket. Saliva sulking,

 

Catching jaundice, Festering orgies

of maggots. & I watch / he explodes.

 

 

GOLDEN is a black gender-nonconforming trans-femme multimedia artist and poet raised in Hampton, Virginia. Their work centers using mediums of photography, poetry, and zine-making to dissolve binaries that exist around gender, race, and sexuality. Golden is a 2018 Winter Tangerine Fellow, 2017 Pink Door Fellow, the 2016 NYU Grand Slam Champion, the 2018 House Slam Grand Slam Champion, & was apart of the 2017/2018 NYU CUPSI Championship winning team. Their work has been featured on/at The Offing, i-D, Interview Magazine, the Nathan Cummings Foundation, the Washington Project for the Arts, & Photoville. Golden holds a BFA in Photography from New York University. 

 

 

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