Photographer: Dax Smith
Poet: @mariusrusch
Dax Smith is a photographer and graphic designer living and working in Brooklyn. His art is a reflection of his perspectives on the queer community and his outlook on life and society.
Marius Rusch is a poet and writer currently based in New York.
One – Mike @mike_musthave
Royalty of a renaissance
privilege drips from pouted lips.
A messy dance
of forced romance
severed.
It keeps
class intact
the unremarkable awake.
Tell me where we don’t belong.
We’ll brace for the impact
of otherness.
History can’t repeat something so empty
as gilded mausoleums rowing away.
They can not face this revolting age.
Cover those tracks.
It’s time to brush new strokes.
Hide me in the sky
I’ll touch the velvet darkness, grinning.
My hands’ll see infamous kings
telling great lies
the water believes.
Then catch me under still rivers
where the fish no longer swim.
Their bodies betray.
There is no truth and rescue.
Insides scream
I just want to be
as I see on my screens.
Without windows, this house
can not be burgled.
You can’t steal what you can’t see.
Hidden truths are safe.
Take this—I’ll take the noose.
A mason’s tired hands
hold together his creations.
It would be clumsy to drop progress
but the stone would hold shape.
Though softness
breaks a mason’s heart
it frees him.
The worst is
always around the veins.
Knots of poison, patriarchally bruised
green
on black
on emptiness.
They are past-planted
rooted now.
Unearth him.
What life could be
as when silence speaks
fresh, breathable.
Blades of swaying stillness
disguise the abstention.
It is not shame.
To those who’ve known them
beautiful beasts are to be pitied.
They wander where they’ve left
no longer belonging
anywhere.
Tightrope walkers, they seek
idylls in rejecting valleys.
Don’t hold your breath for change
you’ll die before the clouds roll by.
It is singular.
How would you like
to see the world as they see it?
Language only betrays
when wielded by untrustworthy lovers.
These feathers are so heavy
no bother to try and fly.
All that’s missing is a call
large, bright, screaming loud.
Look at me.
Look at me, please.
Bearing the light weight of
limited yields
it screams for plenty.
In other worlds
it cursed lacking time
too full, too full.
Now
nearly empty
homogeneous, stirred.
Buzzsaw
chains
all suffered for
bright lights and laughter.
Freedom is
faceless crowds of euphoria
and sticky, impaled stages.
Don’t make us drown the demons
without.
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