top of page
< Back


"I'm a transmasculine person who works in mental health and loves words. I guess the background of the poems is, with most poetry I write I cut up other things to construct poems from them, and I find this easier than coming up with the words myself. Like recycling. I did this with Sweetness and On Queer Joy. With Just Like Old Times I based it on memories of a relationship I recently left."

IG: @rj_the_shrimp



I have mad miracles in me

A little shaking treasure

Of a revolution.

In hard cruel voice

We make ourselves

But the thing you learn is:

That kind of existing

Is not enough.

Verbal as in spoken

Actual as in true.

Perhaps we could have loved sweetness;

Made the dangerous nothing


But life in such spaces

Is a scar.

On Queer Joy

Granted, life is only constant days.

People shifting and staring

Focussed in their reaching

Stifling transition with complaints

And husbands.

The performance of cisgender

Indistinguishable from blankness.

As you battle for safety in this world

Find peace amongst the confusion

And fruit beneath the trees

Experience this laughter

That red silk something

That haircut

Dance on the world

So that even the sky

Blushes in its pallor.

Haven't you eaten the figs,

Bones swarming with freedom?

Been perceived outside of gender?

Burned with desperate want

For something taken from all of us?

That strange and intimate fever

Which comes with really being.

Just Like Old Times

Am I misremembering

Or fabricating the light

That glanced off the rings

Above your knuckles?

You rapped them on the tabletop

Matching my heart for speed;

A skull, a snake, a dagger

Keeping time.

The hairs rose on my forearms

In the humming air

Moths tapped against the lanterns

Strung high above our heads.

The smallness of sound

Belying the violence on those

Delicate bodies;

The gentle plunge of a blade

Through waiting skin

(I am waiting

And I am not.)

When I looked back up

From the bottomless pit of

My golden drink

You had disappeared.

The rhythm of your knuckles

Replaced by the gentle percussion

Of fragile life attempting to

touch hot death.

bottom of page