Matthew L. Thompson is a stream of color and breathing, still, contradiction from Cleveland, Ohio, and this Fall will be a MFA candidate in Poetry at The New School. His blog is Unlearning Monday, and he wants his writing to fight, cry, moan, grieve, listen, shout and be as varied and full as he is in the flesh. He wants the reader to feel hugged and possibly humped. Matthew currently lives in Milwaukee, WI practicing reclamation. Join him on Twitter and Instagram @mlew_33.
God be acting like they can’t hear so we use other means
every prayer starts with a beg
a plea to release
knees ashing for answers, hands crumbling the ground, throat drying to dust
and who can withstand the blare of silence?
God, I have called on you 6 times today, is the 7th time the charm?
When laid out in rejoice, fresh on a bed of white lilies, oh God sings from my throat gorged wet, my body swollen with lust dripping of want. God, I am laid out for you now. My silky spit ready to ribbon you a third-coming, your fingers testing the reflex of my gag and that’s what you want right? That’s why you call for knees & a men? I’ll catch your meat, I need the salt, the blessing. My blood and your flesh would make for a righteous communion. and when we cum, the rapture.
Dip, Drop, Swing, Lock, Shake
break, the chains
hit them with the Quan, flex on them hoes
You know how this goes
move your body like your bones done caught fire or somethin
and you must feed the flames
and we know heat so spiral them chains
These movements are a reclamation, a means to get free
a medium to remember ppppthe beat before the beatings
spin spin spin or whateva your jig is til you rise
from them flames whatever good yo mama prayed you’d be
Duck walk, Deathdrop, Pop them wrists
werk, your body
sashay your hips, twirl blink your eyes don’t “fix” your wrists
You know how this goes
when the chant beckons you to the dance floor
Fuck it up
Vogue like the gods, shit like Mickey Bradford become her level of goddess slay
the dragons will huff but they can’t hang
be on fire but ain’t no fags here just flaming kings and queens
steaming of shade and soaking in tea
Bop to the left bop to the right bring them to their knees
get it bitch cuz this yo song and the Beyhives been released
dance turn yeah with your hands up in the air
Get it like you in your room in your good underwear
It’s going to be alright
A simple phrase, a hymn, a praise of truth, uplifts the tongue for all it’s brave. It’s going to be alright is the hand with the oil that beckons out the you in you. It’s going to be alright, come on, come on out. The closet. It got to be dark in there. It got to be unholy and unsavory. Suffocating in ways that only closets can be. Dry rotting away in all your misery. And it’s me. Folded up tucked away in the back of the closet, I was ushered out by nosy hands ready to soothe, unaware of the mountains they would move in these pews, our dining room a church a cathedral ringing with bells of welcome. Our dinner table a confessional and what happened there was all love. Was all Jesus spread out on the cross, tears running down his face for his children. For their traumas and their beauty.