Queer Fluids

I want to slide through the social and its edges tear skin and hair.
Razor smiles in rainbow pins.
To move, as in a book on fluids, in containers.

Tight razor smiles

Delicately disgusted in sweat showers.


I am increasingly baffled by claims that queerness is about fluidity.

We might contest the genealogy of queerness, but let us remember it is fertilized by blood, sweat, spit, semen, the interred bones of the AIDS generation, the delicate minds of the cancer warriors, the gleaming ivory of teeth, and the tears of little queers in homo-hating homes.


We insist on using the metaphorics of fluidity to discuss queerness.
One gets tired, one sweat, one spits, one sweats blood and leaks semen.
What is the materiality of fluids and fluidity, in a raspy social?

Spit. After a while. Add lube. Water-based. Even sweat dries. And mucus is unreliable. Spit. On me. In Me. At Me. Labile.

Raspy social.

I thought being black made me ashy. But the dry rasp of queer spaces produces acute rashes. Queerness might not be about being at home, as Lee Edelman once claimed, but I wonder why it seems more unhomely for the queer Kenyan in US waters, where the sensation of having landed leaves one at sea. Queer diaspora: at sea on land.

Sandpaper Glances.

I turn to frottage to register the feel of queer spaces, the feel of normative spaces, to register what resists lube, the necessary shearing that is one mode of dailyness.

Sweat turns into blood, cutting glances, sweaty palms holding paper-cut invitations.

I sweat more, now, the heat, the fat, the miles of travel to travel, and the return to the unhomely, to being unhomely. To slide into place and leave wet splotches, to peel away from the social bark, and be threaded.

How it feels to be queer me.

I wonder about the shame of confession, what has become impossible to say, making even the impossible even more impossible, and the narrative of that impossibility narrated, here, hidden from the hereness of here.

To blush is to realize that one’s shame is shared-not-shared, but black people do not blush. We are visibly invisible, and those that provide recognition do so through chitin-skins and lowered lashes.

Shame. Sweat. Blood.

Dangerous fluidic space.


3 thoughts on “Queer Fluids

  1. Can I say ‘Spit. After a while. Add lube. Water-based. Even sweat dries’ conjures images of a porn movie NOT in my collection? Lol.

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