Liam Strong
convection eulogy
i don’t know what else to say.
carpet chevron, holy union
of the fist. with its mouth,
homeward, sanctified like
the rule of three in fiction.
it’s a cop
-out, tallow in the eye, sightly
water, inverted lilies, their
pewter & casings ass
to face, in redux, in
redux. i take shots in glasses much
too large. as their analog, Qoheleth
was correct, the satisfaction is
not in the bite
from the drink, but
rather seeing it as is, unmoving,
the cup made of water. cliche of
doughnut with bullet
wounds. scantily formal, lack
of filling, Christian
cross worn like chapstick on
Chanukah. gas stove
top, anvil for branding, my hand
makes a hole where the old
skillet used to perch. parsnips
cook uneven at this
point. i’ve given up waiting
for alarms or my internal
clock. so i watch the pot.
& it boils.
dream bod
more like
carey mulligan meets michael j. fox, which, i know, creates a paradox, i know, but give flesh less
of a chance, honey please, there’s more to a skeleton than just paper towels dripping from its
hangers
i’m atrophying, & i’ve had too much caffeine to pronounce myself bitchy
the mind’s eye deserves a rest too, except it doesn’t, i have bones for a quarter of the calendar,
the stones set in place
frost heave, knuckle, pop–i would love to give myself everything
my jaw is one bloodline hayley williams, the other a museum with a donated piano, steinway, his
adopted burden, at least a few teeth from my father, mother, squirreled in the roof
unlike astral projection, i don’t need to believe i’m a star to see myself as a devil in real life
the sclerosis gets multiplicity, the spine denies structural support, the cishet prince omits sunsets
from the story, but i will spend most days saran-wrapped at bus stops, in need of thawing,
because salt won’t cure undead meat
i’m something to look at, feel sorry for, believe it, honey, i don’t even have tomorrow in my
sights, so what’s a little skin to lose, really, what’s a boneful, i’m slower than death without my
inserts, i don’t have a problem keeping my thoughts to myself, it’s easy, actually, i would prefer
never having to run again, more like
more like i’m better at lying down than you, because an end is not a thing you can witness at the
finality of your callused feet, losing the nightmare of a cross-country meet, again, because this
time, maybe, i’ve always wanted to lose
dreaming of all the possibilities doesn’t pose a daunting challenge
it’s all i’ve ever known, baby
—
Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent cripple punk writer and author of the chapbook Everyone’s Left the Hometown Show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). Find them on Instagram/Twitter: @beanbie666. https://linktr.ee/liamstrong666