7.12 / Queer Three

Two Poems

HUMPADORI JACK SING-ALONG

listen to this poem

Kindly do not forsake this world of jack,
this world, our steady candy in which we don’t do

jack. Is there a one who
would not hang with us, who

would not instant merge, ride up,

and swallow
whole the highs and lows, who
would not sing and stroke the other along, back and forth, along
the spine, along the branes and sticky chords? I only live to sing and learn
to value life and to make sure
everyone gets hurt in the process.
I have seen for myself how everyone has changed. I too have changed
revolving,
accruing overtures, slivers of always everyone. There is not a one
I cannot bear to touch
because I cannot seriously contemplate

life without my natural allies, my supplements, little universes at the smallest possible surface area and skin, damaged boys trickle in, oh-
It’s a matter of positioning, desperate strands and
lots of Bubblu and Tubblu, Harry and Vlad,
who would merge/float/dive/swirl
into guts and codas of Dave and Lev, of Allen and me-jacks of all trades and
patterns
and experiences on the scale of imps and whales who would not swallow
us whole absurdly together, who would not hang
with us, systemically woo
the slightest part, which is also all of us;
I am not thinking of
fractures of backstab distractions, ciphers:
I don’t want to be the type
everyone
wonders about-
no one to violate the bilqul plump shellac
of altogether now
no one villainous in all things, no one falls
out with the sirens, no one cocks alone.


SHIVA, AGAIN AND AGAIN

listen to this poem

Male thought is my thought. As is Female sprouting a sticky post-
maladiction wig. My lingam wigsome phoenix. Hair on my fingers, prehensile thought inappropros of feathers. Off with your sacerdotal horrors: Wing-pieces, ash-pieces. Why end there-

A salutation, joy in the destroyer, more and more. I part the phoenix.

I part my hair–
My phoenix parted in the center and burning and regrowing hairs on me: Chest hairs, mouth hairs, ash around my fecund mouths-

Pubic sparks!

Ah, hairs on me, always sprouting growing and burning and then growing again.

I part the air, and slowly and whole, a world is born from the corpse, much loved
world I lunge for.

Fizzle that
thought to nothing, I am corpse sliver, and my hair descends and falls, low it falls-river without end. Even when it’s dead I want that world again,

every part.


Vidhu Aggarwal's Humpadori poems are oriented around the Bollywood film industry, Varanasi, queer pyrotechnics, manga, and forms of mobile gadgetry. Find her work in Sugar House Review, Pedestal, Nimrod and other places.
7.12 / Queer Three

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE