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Rocksong
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About This Book
'Rocksong is a shamelessly baroque ride through the all nadirs and summits of the contemporary queer. It's a decadent book, where decadence isn't a cipher for self-indulgence, but a fierce and fugitive resistance. As Audre Lorde writes 'We survived and survival breeds desire for more self'. Or, in the glowing neon precincts of Rocksong, more selves, plural. These poems flirt and confront in turns, they seduce and attack, they are tender and grotesque. They create a strangely exultant burlesque on identity, sexuality, desire and language. I love them for that.' Fran Lock
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Yes, you can access Rocksong by Golnoosh Nour in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Literature & Poetry. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
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DRUMS
(Songs of Selves)
(Songs of Selves)
Ode to Self
We survived and survival breeds desire for more self.â - Audre Lorde
I am that
the fatigued knight wading through the morning light
like Moses gaping the Nile
I am that
the black rose in winter, dead
butterflies dripping from my bruised petals.
I am it
The âit factorâ, the cool factor minus, the cold factor plus, the hot
mess, the browned flesh, the queer crushed
by Authority, forever refusing to agree with anything
other than my own elegant violence, my
autumnal tendencies that I catch in the river of my mirror â the only truth teller
for I am that,
the breathing painting in the attic
the âdarlingâ collector
the cold sore in summer
the sore throat in spring
the allergy screeching at the skin.
I am it
the blue silk with a scarlet kernel,
wrapped in my gold cape, embroidered by thorns, I pounce
over the fence into the abyss to caress
my horns, and to plant myself in fertile soil, roots hard in the ground;
shaking of tornados from my trembling naked branches, I grow tall,
old, skyward, enamoured, pure.
A Peacock Is a Poem
After Aubrey Beardsley
A silver platter embroidered with gold
ashes. A poem is not a poem if it doesnât
weep gilded decadence. A poem is not a poem
if it doesnât look like a slender boy in a peacock
skirt. It is not a poem if the boy does not claim
to be Venus. It is not a poem if Venus does not
stay awake until dawn, coiffing her hair. It is not a
poem if Venus does not behead religion.
It is a ballad when religion bleeds obsidian stones
It is an epic when religion apologises and Venus
spanks it with her diamond whip. Religion writhes in blood,
asking for more. But our boy, Venus gets bored.
She takes of her peacock skirt, displaying her crystal
penis. Religion gets aroused, excited even, but Venus
throws his severed head in her golden bin, alongside a few saints
and prophets, who are all pleading, bleeding, in vain.
A poem is only a poem if itâs a naked woman seeking
Lovers. A poem is only a poem if itâs a many breasted dragon
Her breasts covered with crimson damask, and strewn with
gay flowers; irises, columbines, carnations.
A poem is only a poem if itâs a decadent diamond
It is not a poem if it doesnât wear a peacock skirt
It is not a poem if it does not display a silver tray of sex and the grotesque.
A poem is not a poem if it doesnât destroy itself.
A poem is only a poem if itâs an ivory piece
A poem is not a poem if it doesnât tease with the memory of a grotesque
dream â or a charming nightmare.
A poem is not a poem if itâs not a curious tale.
A poem is a sonnet if it crushes iambic pentameters.
A poem is an elegy if it celebrates decadence
It is a sestina if it knows the dance of the seven veils
It is an ode if it mocks its object of desire.
A poem is a poem if it writes letters to its critics patronising them to tears.
A poem is only a poem if it escapes the injustice of juries and
the shuffling of dealers. A poem is not a poem if it claims
Shakespeare for its favourite poet, Beethoven for its favourite
composer, and Raphael for its favourite painter.
A poem is only a poem if it doesnât confess.
A poem is a true poem if itâs a mad woman beheading prophets.
A poem is a poem if itâs a valiant warrior, wrapped
in peacock feathers.
Infected Parrot
I have no place to stay.
My bed is overflowing with boys,
my mind with girls.
Gender is a performance
I repeat, like an infected parrot.
I am an eternally inebriated animal,
hence my bed is hollow, my mind an asylum
filled with refugees who will be deported
back, back, back.
To war.
But we have no place to go.
My bed is broken and
even though my mind is blooming
like a European Museum of Contemporary Art
I know I cannot stay.
I do not know about the refugees,
I am an international student,
paying, not to be a threat
to nation...
Table of contents
- Cover
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Contents
- BASS (Songs of Home)
- VOCALS (Songs of Desire)
- DRUMS (Songs of Selves)
- A Manifesto: The Future Is Queer
- Acknowledgements
- About Verve Poetry Press