Stop Texting Me

Jasmine Gibson



Stop Texting Me #1

Progressive still means prisons
while the rich steal the future as if it were magic
And that is what the implementation of time really is?
I can repeat the same words I’ve said in past just so you know
I’m foreal
And I want the end, and an orgasm for my trouble
So what I said, was
“Someone died, and we kept laughing. Buildings burned,
not in our favor. And the nurse still wants to know who
is going to pass the afterbirth of future.”

Evangelical hyperbolism of the binary pushing on tissue
No man is ever worth a line of poetry
But I still wrote
High on my own delusions
Whilst others lived inside of them
There was nothing you could say
or do in that moment except fall
over your own words via encryption
If not for the rigor of his absence,
I would’ve not
been equating lack for passion
and higher mental faculties to help us tire through the day
And that’s what men do
And there are no good men

You like the noise of me
How I sit in the lining of where
fat meets connective tissue with skin
That’s where I lie inside you


Stop Texting Me #2

You really think you’re free when there’s ghosts
like Kalief Browder that haunt you?
He will be avenged
Coming in signs of three
1. A burning limo
2. The void
3. The crushing of white marble and the release
of a howl from the deepest part of the belly:
the disembowelment of slaveholders, in every definition the title.


Stop Texting Me #3

Black like
How am I gonna enclose upon you
Like motherfucker tell me what’s real
On a Tuesday, hold your skin close to mine
rub and tell me you’ve never
felt how the moon could move under you like that
How insurrection is just the thickening of lining
and we’re either going to abort, bleed or give birth
Doesn’t it get you wet?


Stop Texting Me #4

I open up open up open open up open up
Until the walls sweat my name
Haunting isn’t enough
I want merge, live inside, split into your cells
Until flesh itself is only thought of as contextual


Stop Texting Me #5

Maybe my ever falling spiral into
white men is fueled by the state
Just as a means to end up in the arms of the state
My Dominican co-worker is telling me
that her boyfriend fantasizing about her taking black cock
“A mulatta fantasy”
Yet all cock is flaccid and selfish
In prison cells, in work cubicles, in bathroom stalls
At 3 am when you want to get fucked

There are poems of Marx’s pussy
Wet and welcoming
Enfold me as you swallow Hegel
eating Proudhon’s ass