The Sound Of Bo Belle

Woke up to your mouth on my collarbone, teeth first, then tongue— You taste like salt and sleep and something feral. With coffee burning in the other room. My body still remembering the night, still open, still hungry. I am whole. obscenely, impossibly whole. Then I check my phone. Trump's declaring war on Iran. And your hand is still between my thighs. The ticker says missiles. I come again, slow and deliberate, Watching the news crawl across the screen, My body arching into your palm While children learn the sound of sirens. This is freedom: Your teeth marks on my shoulder, blood rushing to the surface, blooming purple while Tehran prepares its dead. I want you again. I want you more than I want to be good. I want your weight on me, your breath in my ear, The animal simplicity of skin on skin while the empire sharpens its machinery. The body is a traitor. It wants pleasure even in the death camps. It wants to touch even as the tanks roll. It doesn't care about your politics, ...

The nation is a white room with no corners. It smells of bleach. It smells of the sharp, metallic tang of the law. The state is not at the keyhole: it is the cold, clinical light that refuses to flicker. It is the sudden chill of the sheet against my spine. The hard, unyielding edges of the iron frame. Your mouth is a trespass on a map they have not yet digitised. A secret union of the rain-heavy moss of the island and the iron-red dust of the road. Two stolen territories finding a common border in the dark. I want to drown the sirens in the heavy, industrial heat of your throat. To feel the interior labyrinth of my blood opening like a raw, wet pulse in a room of glass. We are a tide of salt and sweat moving against the rigid architecture of the census. Our limbs tangling like the roots of a tree they tried to pave over. I feel the ceiling descending. The walls leaning in with the slow, grey gravity of an exclusion zone. But I find my space in the way your teeth catch my lower lip: a ...

Mandelson is a smear of cold grease on the inner thigh of the state. The flight paths are veins of black rot pulsating across the Atlantic. Slick with the lubricant of the unaccountable. A geriatric hunger for the unconsented and the unwritten. The penthouses smell of expensive vetiver masking the copper scent of a forced entry. The sound of a shredder eating an NDA is the only heartbeat left in the room. The spatial politics of the predatory is a hand forcing open a silent jaw, a planning permission signed in unwashed silk and cold grease. The elite are a permanent, clinical erection of capital that can never find release. They are the sodomites of the territory, unzipping the earth to spill their sterile seed into the open wounds of the poor. They fuck the map until the soil turns to gold and the bodies turn to dust. The invasion is a sterile white light that tastes of salt and latex. A gloved hand reaching for the Caribbean, sweating under the rubber. The bloated rot unzips the sea ...

  The world was a wet lung gasping for the salt on your neck. Six hours lost in sheets that smelled of bleach and damp wool. A trap where I buried my face in the heat of your thighs to taste the copper. The musk and the slick raw iron of the body. You were a masterpiece of tendon and soft light tearing in my hands. Your smile performed a frantic alchemy transmuting the lead of the era into gold. For a heartbeat the world was good. A biological lie. The curve of your spine was the only architecture I inhabited. Drowning in the rhythmic grinding of bone against bone. Skin sticking and tearing in a deliberate and frantic erasure. The drone was a ghost. The statistics were locked outside the door. I silenced the scream of the north with the weight of my chest against yours. I silenced the sound of the bulldozer with the sound of your coming. The wet slap of our bodies was the only music. Six hours of biological treason. My hands locked in your hair. Pulling the world down to the size o...

 The mahogany door clicks shut like a guillotine blade. A heavy vacuum drinking the oxygen from the hallway until the lungs burn. Inside it smells of expensive sandalwood and the sour bile of old milk. A cloying sweetness designed to mask the scent of a basement that eats the sun. The silk sheets hiss like vipers against the purpled skin of a thigh. The rip and the tear and the wet iron taste of the blood on the tongue. The violation is a surgical strike on the future. A hand reaching in to rip the womb and the uterus of a generation. Stealing the light from the eyes of a child for the sport of the bored. They harvest innocence like a crop and store it in the vaults of the global mind. An anatomy of a crime draped in the luxury of a curated silence. They took the warning of the book and made it a wallpaper for the elite. They turned the scream into a fashion choice for the bloated. The girl in the sundress is not a muse she is a carcass in the making. A ghost before she even knew t...

I will perform my gender well, Daddy. Wrap my neck in your expensive silk leash. I will carve the binary into my ribs like a price tag. Whatever the hell it is you want to buy today. I am aiming for the transparency of the glass. The number on the scale is a countdown to none. I will shave the spirit until it is smooth enough for your touch. I will be the perfect porcelain void you require. And in return, you will reward me with the crumbs of your attention. You will remember my name for more than half an hour. Before the gin kicks in and the infant formula curdles in your throat. Before you move on to the next virgin skin. I am dancing in the blood of my own history to keep you from looking away. I am the emaciated truth of your desire. I smell like warm vanilla and industrial sugar. A rehearsed desirability wrapped in a pink thong. The scent of a trap laid in the nursery. We are taught from the first breath to rehearse our own consumption. To be an Angel on a runway while our names a...

  The three words arrive like a bailiff at the door clutching a clipboard of expectations a lease for the heart signed in the blood of a thousand domestic silences. But I am not a property for your portfolio not a plot of dirt to be fenced and patrolled not a garden for your exclusive aesthetic pleasure. I love you is not a border guard not a stamp in a passport not a wall built to keep the world out. It is the opening of the gate the burning of the fence the riot of the commons in the chest. This is my body to fuck around with to drag through the grit of the street to offer up to the salt and the spit of the world. I want the liquid maps of a stranger’s mouth the raw geometry of all-night bed poems the velvet friction of the unmapped. I want to be a vessel for the hunger of the city the scent of musk and asphalt etched in the sweat on my thighs where the skin is a shared territory not a private estate for you to mine the marrow. I want the teeth of the night to leave marks the kin...

The testimony is a bird hitting a glass wall: a wet slap of feathers and a broken neck. A girl stands in the witness box and her voice is a ghost: a frequency the court has been tuned to ignore. The judge has eyes like cold marbles: he is looking for the watermark: the seal of the state: the signature of the predator. He does not see the bruise blooming like a dark flower on the inner thigh: he does not hear the stutter that sounds like a machine gun in a small room. He wants the ledger: the holy inventory of the slaughterhouse. The public demands the files with a hunger that smells of copper and salt: they want the ink: they want the black and white confirmation of what the flesh has already screamed until its throat was raw. They treat the paper as a relic: a sacred skin more precious than the girl’s own nervous system. They would believe a dead tree before they believe a living woman. This is the ultimate insult of the archive: the belief that the victim is a fiction until the rapis...