Tyberius Larking

Gender and Abject Horror: The Poetic Self

I recently woke to clothes and sheets drenched in blood. The sun, squeamish, kept its distance as I stripped off and showered. Outside, a glutinous rain fell disinfecting the streets; the bins begged and pleaded; have mercy on us. My periods have been heavy all my life though, until then, I hadn’t bled so profusely in years.

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Tell Me Like You Mean It 6

Once, I was sitting in my therapist’s office, and she asked me the question ‘Why do you write poetry?’ It’s a very good question; one with many answers, half of which I couldn’t articulate here. I responded to her with something like, ‘It helps me to understand my internal environment.’

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This morning the moon and her hands were dry as sea-glass she held them firm over my mouth and it was a kind of muzzle in the kind of rain that knows your postcode that smells how the piano smells …

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