2 Poems
JP Seabright
JP Seabright (she/they) is a queer writer living in London. They have three pamphlets published: Fragments from Before the Fall: An Anthology of Post-Anthropocene Poetry by Beir Bua Press; the erotic memoir NO HOLDS BARRED by Lupercalia Press, and GenderFux, a collaborative poetry pamphlet, by Nine Pens Press. MACHINATIONS, an experimental collaborative work is out in 2022 from Trickhouse Press, as is Be∞Cause, a microchap, from Ghost City Press. More of their work can be found at https://jpseabright.com and via Twitter @errormessage
Orchestral Manoeuvres
Holy the groaning saxophone, the downbeat snare, the squawking kazoo and the pipsqueak piccolo. Transcendent chordal bliss, major to minor, how strange the change, its beauteous lift. Majestic timpani, symphonious harps, glissandoing angels, catgut and horsehair. The tap of the baton, the click of the fingers, the count in, the fade out, the take it to the bridge and the hit it and quit. The tripping beat, the sickening chord, the terrible ecstasy of the violoncello. Ambient distortion, baroque harmonics, serialist undertones, industrial drone and drum ‘n’ bass. The trilling sensuality of the xylophone, lips pursed to kiss the flute, fellating oboes, torches heralding trumpets from heaven. Glory the sacrificial guitar, the hi-hat, the rim shot, the playful paradiddles ancient and modern. Hallelujah to the salvation of the tambourine, the tuba, the tubular bells and the blessed theremin. Holy instrumental joy, composing music of the spheres within.
Family Matters
My uncle was gay. It runs in the family. He’s dead now.
But not from old age. His death recorded as accidental.
But we all know. It was most likely murder.
Or suicide. But he wasn’t depressed.
Just being blackmailed.
His ex-lover was a drag queen. Davy. (Not his stage name).
I wish I remembered his stage name. Wish I’d met him.
(All those years they were together). Seen him perform.
In the leather-bound gay pubs of East London.
A starlet in sequins. His blue eyes sparkling.
Reflecting the mirror balls. Performing small miracles.
Every Saturday night.
After the divorce. My uncle came out. To family and friends.
He’d drive from Essex to see us. Stay the night on our sofa.
Reliving his youth. His Harley parked outside.
Black leathers and helmet. Taking over the hallway.
Then he and me and my girl would go flying.
High over the Hackney streets.
The black sheep of the family.
Running together. Into the
queer velvet night.
Once out he was radiant. Beautifully queer.
Freed from a lifetime living under cover.
He’d roll up his sleeves. Show off the tattoos.
Hidden from his children and grandchildren.
Flaunt to us with delight. As we danced in his spotlight.
Listening to our
queer family histories.
Of dive bars
& drag clubs & dark rooms & cottages
& makeup & wigs & high heels & suspenders
& poofs & benders & faggots & bears
& beers & queers & lezzas & dykes
& tattoos & piercings & boots & beards
& Harley Davidson motorbikes
Not long after. His ex-lover was found. Washed up on the beach.
Wearing one of his favourite dresses. (Strangled).
Two weeks later. My uncle was found. (Burned alive).
In his favourite car. A bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle.
Traumatic death. It runs in my family. (Both sides).
It splits the vein.
Splinters us apart.
What is it again that runs in my family? Is it love?
I want it to be love.
But it’s not that. It’s a love of running.
Running away. To find
one’s own family.
