Queer Verse

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150 Plays
Apple
If God Was a Dyke

paperhippy:

If God Was a Dyke

If God was a dyke she would have a buzz cut and wear flowing, flowery sun dresses in the blistering hot months of summer.  She would have deep, brown skin and she would be a follower of the muslim religion.  But don’t tell the women who get down on their knees to drink up her knowledge through tears and strap ons.
If God was a dyke, she would drag those ignorant bastards who only believe in putting two puzzle pieces together straight up to heaven.  She would open the gates and cry out, “Mary was a lesbian and Jesus had two mothers.”  Then she would give them the choice to live a life of luxury or to drop down to monkey suit ridden, disapproving glances within the bowels of hell.

If God was a dyke she would ride her bike from church to church on sundays, silently tapping the shoulders of women who aren’t allowed to come back home with their lovers and smacking the priests in the backs of their heads for preaching heterosexuality and then touching little boys.

If God was a dyke she would button her flannels all the way to the top and tie a small bow tie around her neck and wear trouser socks with argyle designs on them in the brutal months of winter.  And she would eat her meals in the backs of pick up trucks and beds with springs so old that she could remember the dinosaurs sitting on them.

(via campwannaweep)

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30 Plays
Apple
Moonbeams

(via campwannaweep)

12 notes

First Date with a Man I Could Have Married

alekssajak:

They told me to “act cute
watch your step on the stairs
but trip coyly
so Mr. can sweep you
of those pretty
little feet”

so I
tripped and slid
down two flights of
coiled stairs,
got up and howled
a laugh that could have
woken up the bears
and when
he gave me his arm
I stopped;
I stared;
I said,
“Don’t you dare
touch me.”

(via shegotjumpercablelips)

35 notes

dontfeedthehipsterz:

You played a melody of adoration across my spine

and sang sweet lyrics through my body.

I strummed your soft skin like an acoustic guitar

and hummed along against your lips.

A concert found among worn leather couches

and between sheets and comforters.

Together we made my favorite band.

(via campwannaweep)

7 notes

An unedited story of two girls, part 3

copper-girl:

The train ride is quick, routine as it’s ever been, but the closer to the station, the rougher the tracks feel. Or maybe I was quaking and it wasn’t cars and rails and timbers shaking. I call her right before reception-breaking tunnels, all stutters, all flutters. I’m almost there. She’s almost there.

We’re almost there. The wind and my hair and a new love of Chicago whip through my eyes, phone clutched to my ear. I can hear. There’s a garbage truck, but I can see her. I can SEE her. And she’s there and I’m there and we’re we. One-ways and missed turns. I missed her. God, I missed her. We’re flying out on the expressway, my thoughts unmerging, unmoving like stand-still traffic but I’m relaxing and laughing and no one’s screaming GO! Our magic carpet had a loose thread. This can’t just be in my head, now.

I meet the parents, one with cheshire grin, forced charming mirth, and she said, “You’re taller in person.” My face was red. We colored. With crayons and colored pencils. Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty in gray/black dresses, hipster glasses, chucks, and red tresses. I meet the sisters, squealing, hugging, smiling, this one’s easy. Then we… we. I… her… me… We. We rush in front of mirrors and pause in front of one before we’re out the door.

Then magical madrigals… I’d ruin it with words. And we’re in the dark in this castle then under lights and I should have a nose ring? Then she’s eating the raisins from my figgy pudding and there’s mistletoe, and didn’t I read this in a story once? Or maybe I wrote it… We’re holding hands. I’m meeting friends and thinking in cliches about which of these faces I want to be looking at. And holding hands. And something about nine ladies dancing. And holding hands.

And it’s snowing! Like, really, really snowing! This is a fairy-tale dream, our chariot awaits, but the snow’s slippery and short legs need shorter snow-print gaits. She treats me like a lady and shuffles and skuffles and brushes the car clean. The drive home is slow and blurry, hypnotizing via mixtapes and flurries. And Candy Cane Lane is bright and warming. Just as soon as we’re home (home?) the sisters start swarming. Quiet faster than it grew loud, we’re sitting, Finding Neverland. You know the best part of making lists, right? Fairy dust and flying and truth serum and crying.

I wake up early, texting good morning out of habit or necessity. And the couch is comfortable, and so is she, but maybe the water heater guy felt awkward. She makes breakfast… we share.

She… I… we…

Just us.

And Finding Nemo. I hope I don’t lose her.