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the sun drips down the back of my head. it pulls my ponytail. the rays makes my clothes stiff and matted. it calls eyes to me green grass dries out and those damn southern bugs never stop chattering who is she? what's she doing here?

blake kathryn
The Stonewall Inn

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Claire Keane

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official daine visual archive
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@creepingmeatball
untitled
the sun drips down the back of my head. it pulls my ponytail. the rays makes my clothes stiff and matted. it calls eyes to me green grass dries out and those damn southern bugs never stop chattering who is she? what's she doing here?

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bankrobber
i stole these fishnets from target
they were small enough to fit in my little purse (can’t remember which) in my big hands (cant remember which)
i’ve always had to steal my womanhood ever since god’s doctors gave you yours and past me by (someone painted blood above the door)
remember when bank security held me down with their eyes and i (woman with cock) became robber with shotgun and every straight person became a (fucking) cop (someday I’m going to steal back all my rent money back from that bank)
i can’t shoplift titties
but im gonna be all the woman my money could never buy
(i stole an eyeshadow too)
so if i’m gonna leave target with armies of straight (hot knife) eyes
then (fuck it) my (long) legs are gonna scream baçk with knives of their own (fuckers)
my (tranny) legs are gonna look better in these fishnets than anybody could even imagine
when they come for my body tomorrow
bankrobber
i stole these fishnets from target
they were small enough to fit in my little purse (can’t remember which) in my big hands (cant remember which)
i’ve always had to steal my womanhood ever since god’s doctors gave you yours and past me by (someone painted blood above the door)
remember when bank security held me down with their eyes and i (woman with cock) became robber with shotgun and every straight person became a (fucking) cop (someday I’m going to steal back all my rent money back from that bank)
i can’t shoplift titties
but im gonna be all the woman my money could never buy
(i stole an eyeshadow too)
so if i’m gonna leave target with armies of straight (hot knife) eyes
then (fuck it) my (long) legs are gonna scream baçk with knives of their own (fuckers)
my (tranny) legs are gonna look better in these fishnets than anybody could even imagine
when they come for my body tomorrow
No Pride For The Police
(content warning: this essay contains conversations on police brutality, homophobia, transphobia, racism, mental illness, and rape that may be upsetting. it also uses reclaimed slurs)
Pride is our day to be out and be loud. To many, these events are the only face of the queer community. They’re loud, colorful, and celebratory. Seeing my people celebrate their queerness all over the country is inspiring. However, these marches often fail to focus on important political issues that affect more vulnerable queer populations. Among these issues is the trend of increased police involvement.
Police are everywhere at pride parades, they escort the marchers, they block off the route, and they patrol the area. At the last pride march i attended, the police even paraded alongside the marchers in their cruisers, waving rainbow flags at the audience. Police love to play like they’re supporting the community. They smile, crack jokes, and pose for pictures. To them, pride is a way to build clout in the community. A way to get people to trust them and rely on them. Once pride is over however, they aren’t so friendly to the queers.
Mya Hall, a 27 year old black trans woman took a wrong turn off the highway and ended up headed towards the Baltimore NSA headquarters. Before she reached the gates of the facility, police open fired at her car. Kayden Clarke, a 24 year old trans man, called the police for help during an Aspergers-related meltdown. Instead of attempting to talk him down the police fired their weapons. Both of these people had their lives end at the hands of the police. Stories like these are shocking examples of how police interact with queer bodies. Police violence is a constant threat against us, felt most by trans people, people of color, and differently abled queers.
Black trans women especially are targeted. They are profiled as sex workers or drug addicts by the police who use the law as an excuse to harass, beat, sexually assault, and arrest these women with no repercussions. According to the National Coalition of Anti Violence Programs, Transgender people of color are six times more likely to experience police violence that cis white people, and the Office of Justice Programs says that thirty two percent of black trans women report being sexually assaulted while in police custody or jail.
As a community, our number one priority should be to ensure the physical safety of our most threatened members. Any queer organization that supports or works with the cops does it in the face of every queer person targeted by them. If a group doesn’t fight for the protection of all queer people, especially trans women of color, then it is fucking useless.
When the modern gay rights movement began, police violence was one of the main points of action, and we would not have the rights that we have without our spiritual ancestors’ anti-police resistance. Unfortunately, that history of resistance has been lost or erased by the mainstream community.
In the 1960s, the queer community had to work underground to avoid police harassment. Raids on gay bars and restaurants were regular, and sometimes even scheduled.
Organizations such as the Daughters of Bilitis and the Mattachine Society worked to create public acceptance of homosexuality, but were very restrained and quiet in their tactics. They excluded trans people, demanded formal dress, and did their work from the closet using respectful and non confrontational tactics that were slow-working and ineffective.
In 1966, police attacked a group of trans people at Compton’s cafeteria in San francisco’s tenderloin district. Fighting soon broke out as queers smashed windows and threw plates, cups, and furniture at the police. this quickly became a battle between police and trans folk and spilled out into the street. Those riots showed the community that they had the power to fight against the police. It inspired queer militancy all over the country, and helped create a network of fags in San Francisco that would organize and fight for queer rights in the coming years.
More well known is the 1969 Stonewall Uprising. When the police attacked the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar popular with homeless queer people, they were met with bricks, fists, and shouts of “gay power!” In the aftermath of the battle, queer people began organizing into groups such as the Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and the Gay Activists Alliance (GAA). These groups borrowed tactics from black and anti-war activists, and advocated for queer people to come out and protest their unfair treatment.
On the first anniversary of the uprising, gay activists marched in the Christopher Street Liberation Day parade from Christopher Street to Central Park. Similar marches were organized in Chicago and Los Angeles. In the coming years, these marches had spread across the world and became the pride marches that we see today.
As we achieved more and more rights, the tone and politics of these marches changed. They became bigger, gained the support of city governments, corporate sponsors, and the police. The legacy of militant resistance was erased, and the participation of trans people, and queers of color was discouraged. Today’s pride events hardly have any resemblance to the anti-police spirit that created the movement and gave us our collective power.
The only way to achieve queer liberation is to resist capitalism and the police that support it. Simply asking the system to give us rights can never ensure our safety, because the violence against us is a fundamental part of capitalism.
Gender and heterosexuality are constructs created by capitalism to assign labor roles on the personal level. Capitalism is strengthened when it can promote straight nuclear families that work for the benefit of the wealthy. If you were assigned male, you are pressured into doing wage labor for the wealthy so that you can support your family. If you were assigned female, you are pressured into unpaid labor in the home, supporting your husband in his wage labor and raising the next genderation of workers. Gender is a life given to us at birth without our consent. Any deviation from those assigned roles is a threat to capitalism. As queer people, our bodies and sexualities are fundamentally opposed to the social order. We are the targets of violence because our very existence represents a loss of capitalism’s control over its workforce.
Police exist as the enforcement arm of the wealthy. They were created to protect the property of slave owners, and are the only group given permission to use violence. Their main goal is to protect the power of the wealthy under the guise of justice. Because we’re a threat to capitalism’s control over the workforce, cops set out to terrorize and destroy vulnerable queer populations whenever possible. They don’t attack us because they’re homophobic, They attack us because it’s their job. No sensitivity training, policy change, or civil discussion can change their purpose. The police are fundamentally opposed to our existence and in order to achieve liberation, we must put an end to them and the capitalism that gives them power. Once we understand the nature of our oppression, it becomes our responsibility to resist capitalism and ensure that our community does the same.
In the 2016 Toronto pride parade, Black Lives Matter was asked to march as “honored guests”. As they reached an intersection, the float stopped and the marchers sat down. As the entire parade came to a stop, the group demanded that the event’s organizers agree to a list of demands calling for more inclusion of black and poc issues, and an end to police floats and booths. Within thirty minutes, the organizers agreed to these demands and police were not invited to have a float at the 2017 march. This tactic was effective because it was confrontational, direct, and gave power to the protestors. They spoke truth directly to the spectators, and obtained bargaining power that allowed their demands to be met.
We need to have open resistance against the police at pride events. Our tactics must be confrontational and dramatic. Pride is a stage that can be hijacked for a radical message. It’s easy to take the stage. even if you can’t get permission to march you can jump in as a group and pretend to be a sponsored float. If you have banners and signs, none of the spectators will think twice about you being there.
At the risk of bad publicity, Police will be hesitant to use force at pride. Remember they’re there to make friends and they’re not trying to drag fags off the street. In a confrontational situation, there’s nothing the cops can do to look good. They either do nothing and give us space to educate and agitate, or they react with clumsy aggression (the only way they know how) and end up looking like the gay-bashing fascists that they are.
There is no limit to the protest strategies that can be used at pride. You can set up booths, perform theater, hand out literature, and use your bodies to bring police outreach to a halt. You can chant, sing, dance, or speak. An organized group of twenty or thirty fags can easily turn a pride march into a radicalizing experience. In fact, it was a group of just a few fags dedicated fighting against the police that started the movement. Use your imagination, and don’t forget what you’re fighting for.
The mainstream movement has blood on its hands when it works alongside those who jail, rape, and murder our queer family. we have become obsessed with positive visibility and personal validation at the expense of ignoring the violence that continues to hurt us. Our liberation cannot come with rainbow flags and good intentions. Liberation can only come through action.
-asher p. savio, 2017
$36.75
taxes and shipping included $36.75 is the final cost of a nude no. 4 tritop binder from gc2b
i mention this to my friend and she says, “self care is expensive” i reply, “dont you mean self mutilation” because isn’t that what this is
$36.75 buys you aching ribs that feel like cracking when you laugh too hard buys you bruised abdomen buys you can’t walk up stairs without wanting to vomit buys you not being able to sleep without thinking it through first because if you fall asleep with a binder on you risk breaking bones because of how deep you breath and how much your chest tries to expand
see, when you’re trans you gotta make sure you don’t take up too much room gotta make sure you stay compressed into your little pocket of space don’t make yourself large enough for everyone else to notice need to hide the parts of yourself that make you wrong press them back into your body hold them there like a secret binders are just an expensive way of fitting yourself into everyone else’s expectations
even so my bank account is now $36.75 lighter than it was twenty minutes ago because
$36.75 is still a damn good price for kevlar for body armor and maybe all the squeezing and contorting of this body is worth it for some small safety for being able to walk down the street without feeling stares pressing into your back for catching sight of your reflection as you walk past a window and still being able to breathe however shallowly

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...
I beg for a voice that shatters minds, bashes bigots
Cracks through the preconceived barriers people have about me
I beg for days when my bosom isn’t a burden
Days where my ribs won’t feel like they’re caving in
In 8 hours
Chest binders mimic boa constrictors while bones
Fold over each other in painful prayer
8 hours is not enough
With one eye closed, I see a man in the mirror staring back at me
With the other eye closed, I see a person
a person
Questions plastered on their androgynous little baby face
Confused by the pre-checked boxes gifted to them by society, Happy Birthday
They look a lot like me, lost, outspoken
Queer
God? What’s your address?
I wanna write you a letter
“Wrong gender, return to sender”
Can I get a refund?
F IS A PASSING GRADE
a funny thing happens when I begin to almost pass their curtains draw less quickly their harsh gaze diminishes they start searching for a new toy like pigs in the sand they’re trying to find me naked trying to find me with my shirt lifted trying to find me when my tuck slips trying to find me with my girlhood in hand the search thrills them I know it well they stare and stare and stare mouth agape and drooling looking for the smallest slip the tiniest falter the faintest facial hair a sign that we are flawed and they are perfect sorry I have a flat chest sorry I have harsh skin sorry I’m not changing faster sorry for my name sorry I am melting sorry I am poured in to your mould sorry I look like you so rip my skin off wear me as your trophy a token of your efforts beat and bruise me until I fit the shape you want your garbage can your sex toy I know the shapes well you taught me long ago
fuck bob marshall

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“Feeling forgotten feels worst than dying” a poem by Eric King in solidarity with Chelsea Manning
Via: SupportEricKing.org
They take away your voice
you loose touch with yourself.
If you aren’t moving forward
do we even exist?
Instagram, tinder, never made a hashtag.
Everyone is street walking
playing Pokemon Go
I don’t even have a phone.
It’s so easy to feel alone
Feeling Forgotten Feels worse
than dying.
They turned your story into a crime
tortured you for daring to exist
must have hurt those fuckers
to know so many people listen.
Flowers can grow in concrete,
can we grow in cells?
The easiest thing in the world
is to feel you’ve lost touch,
and it hurts so much,
Solidarity Chelsea
“you’re such a pretty girl” they say but they don’t notice how she hides her hair beneath beanies and hats she’s already cut off inch after inch already shaved the sides under the guise that it’s “fashionable” and “in style" she averts her gaze from her mother as she ‘tuts’ in disapproval "you’re such a pretty girl” they say but they don’t notice the way she wears two sports bras every morning not caring about the risk factors as long as it makes her chest flat her chest is small to begin with but not small enough she hides under sweatshirts and hoodies hoping that at least from behind someone will have to do a double take when they see her walking the streets “you’re such a pretty girl” they say even though she’s asked them not to call her a girl when they still do, she thinks that they just forgot “you’re such a pretty girl” they say even though she doesn’t really respond to “girl” or “she” or “her” they think she just didn’t hear so they repeat themselves again and again and again and again until the words sound less like words and more like fists they ask why she’s crying but she can’t even begin to explain “you’re such a pretty girl” they say but they don’t see the way she recoils back from the world as if it’s coming for her like fire, as if it burns and it does it burns like a flame that no one can see so white hot and intense that it rivals the sun it melts her skin and eats away at her flesh until she is nothing nothing but a skeleton that no one can call a girl
such a pretty girl (cc, 2017)
YOU GUYS CAN CHECK OUT THIS POEM AND SO MANY MORE IN MY LGBT+ POETRY ANTHOLOGY - HAVE SOME PRIDE - COMING SOON!
(via drunk-on-writing)
the squat
the always vines reach forever fingers up the fence pulling the city back into the dirt piece by piece the front line of the earth’s immune system they drip dirty rain onto our packs and we’re consecrated or condemned to kick open the plywood window . get out of this goddamn rain
grip the the floorboards with your soggy rubber boots don’t stumble on the landscape of trash . 7-11 pizza boxes, moldy clothes
the crawlspace is alive and suffocating . roaches, ants, and a tangle of everything that grows slowly in the dark. fed by all the darkness that in a hundred years can slide under a southern porch the damp rotting weight of left-behinds laced together . spiderwebs, mildew, ratshit. carve away a patch of floor for sleeping wrap the wet chunky air in pot smoke two soft coat and blanket puddles breathing gruntled sleep for the next late morning.
I have never been to a clothing swap that wasn’t dedicated to trans folks We used to organize them in high school so we could discretely get clothing we were more comfortable in We would all show up with bags of clothes that still fit us, but didn’t fit us anymore We would all leave feeling more like ourselves in our wardrobe Our parents wouldn’t get us what we wanted so we helped each other It was us vs the world The question “what pronouns do you use” was accompanied with “who can I use those around” My teachers never knew my real name Stephanie hid her dresses in the same place she hid her weed This was how we lived I remember waking up with Whitney and joking about how we don’t need to get out of bed just yet because we both have trans bladders of steel I remember meeting Jack’s parents Having to call him by a different name A name I know haunts him I remember visiting friends in hospitals after failed suicide attempts Their roommates chosen based on a gender that isn’t even theirs I remember everyone who came before us I remember Sylvia Rivera I remember Marsha P. Johnson I remember Lucy Hicks Anderson I remember Christine Jorgensen I remember Venus Xtravaganza I remember Leelah Alcorn I remember I remember I remember These people can not be forgotten These heroes will not be forgotten I remember
Kay Kassirer (For TDOR)
from a scrapped poem on getting misgendered

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a. leylâ
our lady of the inter[ ]state ] ] [inter] state ] ] a[ ]sleep between ] the tire ] burns
reeking of asphalt reek as [ ] fault ] as
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a. leylâ