bedfellows magazine
X
Picture
SEX MACHINES

Laura writes of realism as verisimilitude in drag

we’re talking about the terror of beauty

Tracing the edges of the empty space in u

In us self-satisfied pleasure in the resistance 

Let’s Play Tag Online

‘The clouds molest me in the baroque dark’

In our edgy sentimentalism beautyalways strikes a nerve

Monochrome femme, animal print readjusted to hide our waste

Pubes disappearing behind a tiny silk line

The sexiness of an indentation which seems like a history we can trust

What’s terrible about this look?

What does your end feel like?

Resigned to a digital gallery we just swipe through

A sparse no man’s land where the air is drowned in lotion

Metallic water streaming down a plastic curtain

Something hard falling out of something soft

Bottom just an abstraction, a fossil liquid, a taxonomy

So much lotion it’s all feeling

Like a spongy dessert

Dripping sauce and reduction

When scale is discarded our profile becomes landscape

fuck me 
 
fuck you

Receptivity is a blessing from the outside in

The simplicity of back, back, forth obliterating

Our ass an oubliette

Compact and black as a bible

I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up

A farmer’s daughter

A blood red barn door

Melting into the decor, all denim and ponytails

More than just corn-fed

In the penultimate scene of your fantasy

The world had ended and we hadn’t noticed

In high school I was melancholic 

A hired hand trudging through a hypnotic abyss of showtunes

The bad romance of Scott Walker singing “Black Sheep Boy”

I knew something heavenly had to be coming

a sickly funnel spinning above our head

This green expanse is not a sign of health

between the subject and object there’s a love that negates itself

A myth born of the need to compare pleasures

We keep it in a hidden place, I wanted everything to be slippery

A lake beneath a dune, I was gasping
 
A bird gurl, a flash of gold against the blue

A blur of metal disappearing

I was naked in the water, I was hiding behind the trees

It was night, I was licking frosting off a beater

I was slime evolving, I was acid, bacteria living inside a blossom

I was fluff and fluffing, floating upward into a bank of klieg lights

I illustrate us, the umbilical cord that circulates your blood

The sample inside another song as if there were a soul

To be found we grow into each other slowly

This unexpected bouquet of roses

As from out of nowhere

We color our hair and the spectrum thickens

UNICORN SWEAT
 
these overheard words to live by
 
“we’re strong
 
we’re a Kelly Clarksen song”
 
even a thick deliberate line
 
blurs under purple shadow
 
beautiful little accidents
 
or not caring too much
 
like the germs that infiltrate
 
a static system
 
spreading their negative influence
 
with no discernment
 
gender fucked
 
gender and the story of love
 
which negates them both
 
one wild androgynous Star
 
streaking the air
 
with the history of music
 
fading away
 
wanting to drape a discarded
 
faux fur like a bathrobe
 
imperious, got wings
 
and a prism
 
for our third eye
 
in technicolor wash
 
in lover’s spit
 
the sky after a summer rain
 
this pastoral of emotion
 
wild from the top down
 
no manners not even
 
a well-played game
 
of Candy Land
 
our new flag
 
our rainbow roots
 
rising up from the dirt shiny
 
like palm trees in a snow globe
 
like a natural masterpiece
I GEMINI
 
Skinny with a bubble butt
 
pushed up against a subwoofer
 
Hot pink sludge
 
trying to slip out the back
 
of this towering queer
 
arousal that is not
 
not evangelical
 
How boyfriends and girlfriends
 
share blush and two pieces
 
divvy up their time together
 
Cruising in a club more like
 
an apartment or low-slung bar
 
in Long Island City
 
Someone close said “my emotional
 
reality IS reality” naturally a water sign
 
I’m nodding yes to The Pet Shop Boys 
 
teasing their remix of Blur
 
a basic model for the infinite
 
combinations of a fractured binary
 
Shamefully attractive somewhere
 
in California being tarted up beach goth
 
with no place to go but back inside
 
East coast boho a sun-shiny disaffection
 
most of the time we’re fixated on
 
a dramatic gesture to translate
 
introvert into mysterious sex
 
Bright, impossible, impudent, becoming
 
life-giving coven of raspberry smoke
 
Thrift store named The Love Witch
 
We purchase a daisy print romper 
 
Hot Topic guipure dotted gloves 
 
in black lace, an oubliette, an O-ring choker
 
Cosplaying our very own period drama
 
The aughts drifting across the landscape
 
Sprawled out on the lawn in Colma
 
we imagine sweet dreams are made of this
 
Christian Death, Blue by Joni Mitchell
 
everything just too perfect to include
 
Heaven and hell joined at the hip
 
Always should be 
 
someone you really love
BACK TO CURRENT BEDFELLOWS
Proudly powered by Weebly
  • HOME
  • ABOUT
    • OLD LOVERS
  • SPLITS
  • HOME
  • ABOUT
    • OLD LOVERS
  • SPLITS