Quantcast

'Bisexuality', a Poem by Hera Lindsay Bird

Hera Lindsay Bird

"Everyone assumes you want to fuck them.........and they're right"

Photo by Rachel Brandon

'There's such a thing as too much sexual freedom....'
Heidegger wrote that and he was bisexual too
always naked on a black leash, scrubbing the telephone
You think my heart is a shanty town...with fur curtains blowing

It's like turning your back on God...........but in a risqué halter neck
Like a rocking horse at auction you go to the highest bidder
You want to come home, but your home was destroyed in the war....
And carefully refurbished, with an elegant leopard trim

The men are bad, and the girls.......................are worse bad
Each day you wake up and have to be the wife again
To be a woman to a woman, is a female double-jointedness
Your heart a black salt lick, in an elk-laden pasture

To be bisexual is to be out of office, even to yourself
Like a rare sexual Narnia and no spring in sight
They won't let you out of the closet to get back in again
Deep in the winter coats, a little snow starts falling...

Everyone assumes you want to fuck them.........and they're right
but you're also bad girl, with a kinky....goodbye fetish
Always bursting into tears in the hotel lobby!
Gliding off in a taxi, with a briefcase full of military secrets

It's hard to know what bisexuality means
It just.......comes over you, like an urban sandstorm
When a fish crawls up onto land?—that's bisexuality
It's an ancient sexual amphibiousness

It's like climbing out of a burning building into too much water
Or climbing out of a burning building.......
into a second identical burning building
Why does everything have to be so on fire? you ask yourself
But when you look down, your fretwork is smoking

Not the well of loneliness, more like a water feature
But a tasteful one, with a hidden power supply
You look out over the hills and the rows of red houses
And worst of all, you don't even like softball!!!

@HeraLindsayBird

More on poetry:

An Interview with Poet Hera Lindsay Bird

Meet the Worst Poet In South London

The VICE Interview: Patti Smith