‘Hinges’ and other poems by Jax NTP


it is easy to obsess over small objects
paperclips spoons and q-tips when self
grooming generates silence — virginal

trumps untamable — the renunciations
of dullness do not lead to desire
with upturned hands, razors, at rest

it is easiest to use sadness as a utensil
to push people away spiders construct
traps from their abdomen then devour

daily to recoup, silk protein recycled
gouaches in lowlight, design or debris
we all think we might be terrible

but we only reveal this before
asking someone to love us
a kind of undressing — it is easy

to section and peel a tangelo
even false origin stories expose
shame — a cerebral echo chamber

when self sculpture empties
mark the focal point as hinge
hemmed, at the center, coral

since microwave romances have deceptive expiration dates

i brush my teeth at his place now, but that’s not the point
scuba means self contained underwater breathing apparatus
he kisses me urgently mid chew ginger garlic fish sauce

in public, no pressure, no hesitation, and this is mos def not the point
chemistry is important since we cannot manufacture it out of raw necessity
Drake’s first line in Finesse is I want my babies to have your eyes

despite incoming or ongoing variables what is the function of “x” why tell
a stranger or a lover your problems when you can use it as a chance to
punish those around you — make haste and hail to the queen of non-sequiturs

on my critical thinking roster i can’t pronounce the name “FNU”
in countries where newborns are left post war now privileged
strangers greet them as “first name unknown” a haunting aqualung

nerve damage after dead relationships may result in tooth decay
when you are tasting: the first taste acclimates the palate, the second
establishes a foundation, and the third taste is to make a decision

since you’re an expert of creating a crisis out of empty nostalgia
can i get a metaphorical forklift for all my emotional baggage?
the accumulation of plaque cannot be resolved by few weeks of flossing

what is lost can be found in the biological studies of an oyster or was it an orchid
or was it of a clitoris — quick what’s a common fishing blunder? let me noodle
around with this for a while before i get back to you

the anatomy of beaches: 3 on west coast, 14 on east coast
your absence has reached comical heights Charlie Chaplin
himself would rise from the dead to have a laugh at us

is this my grave or my mother’s womb?

it upsets me when my mother thinks
my poetry is silly. the word “silly”
comes from the old english word “selig”
meaning happy, healthy, and prosperous.

in german, “selig” means to be blessed:
but consecrated and made holy with what?
when a title, silly, precedes the name
of a person, their identity, vigor, and

passion are reduced to the relevancy
of a car alarm. i failed to master french
and vietnamese. my mother has a myriad
of domesticated excuses to not speak

the english language. it complicates
the process of checking and rechecking
the meaning of words in results
to the drowning of palettes in sand

dunes of iodine soaked palm fronds.
a car alarm without a car is not just an alarm.
as mother calls poetry silly, she shucks
and drains the basket of mussels and oysters

in the sink, shucking and draining
with such a lonely authority, the way
a businesswoman shucks off her nightgown,
the way a flaccid regime shucks off

its totalitarian characteristics. my mother
is above logic, she cannot be subpoenaed,
even under oath in court she will not admit
to stating that my poetry is trivial. in the kitchen,

i read her a line from Marcel Proust, happiness
is beneficial for the body, but it is grief
that develops the powers of the mind
but she isn’t listening.

lessons in taxidermy

my armpits have been secreting scaled sadness
for months grommeting new ways to chew 
	linea alba fat tongue teeth grinder agenda
		sleep as prize for insomniacs somnambulists
consolation mantra safe alignments cold mala 
	beads rotates between index and middle silence
	betrays never thought i’d feel this kind of hesitation
		my hands on another girl its more than taxing
the way you take control ocean jasper too often
	longing arcs expose vagueness seek excitement
		in the mundane fingers on pulse fingering 
		when did withholding become attractive
knuckles hungry for pelvic bone quick terse
	confession sharper than indigenous peppermint 
		are tactile feedbacks are satisfying imps
		important lines lost between the years skin folds 
if emptiness is a pretense, a breached duality, an unearthing
	without dirt rebound is proof of grief interrupted here
		taxonomy of queen bees a dozen to please you

🌺 Link to ”a nesting of queer epiphanies in an invisible cat’s cradle” [PDF] Jax NTP


‘Hinges’ and other poems © Jax NTP

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