Jude Armstrong
tapeworm
my tongue is a tapeworm, and my teeth rattle when i walk
this isn’t the worst part of the body
my hair falls on my shoulders,
dripping off my eyelashes,
framing me in a waterlogged edition of Vogue
the chest is tumbling towards the ground,
hurtling towards gravel that will scrap and pull until I fall into the fetal position
limbs too wide,
and i am there
in the center of my mother’s arms
and it is not enough to be a child
i must be a daughter
and even when my fagged frame grows solid, like a stone that will not weather
when my voice goes montone, i can watch it drag through the sky to get clipped on the stars
my tongue will still be a tapeworm
and my teeth will still rattle when i walk
confessions of a something, scared
yesterday i woke in a forest to hunter looking at me
it was my mother
but i didn’t recognize her because she was saying my name
i was begging
today i can feel it
on my hands where everything is strong and beautiful
until you look under the
veins &
floorboards
to see the desperation
that was born in the bloodshot eyes
of dogs
tomorrow
i’ll be tired of the owls promises
that this won’t last long
because sooner or later i be silenced again
and returned to the beginning
which won’t fit because I am ragged and unshaven
but i will curl the hard parts of myself into the shape of her body
and fall,
into hands made of god
because the center of my chest
has always been soft
-15 & Knowing
Because the faint green carnation
under your muddy boot
was the only sign
That my tongue was
too small to
know a name that
wasn't the edge of a hymn.
I took my truth,
as dirtied and
marrow rotten
as the chewed out seed it was born from,
and ran it across my chest
Yes, I wanted you to know
but aimed for mercy
and gave my body
hands
to rub your back.
Yes–
i burned my hand
and danced on my toes
until the sky looked at me,
like i was begging it to
Because I needed
a place to hold
the light that
was so human
it was me
My Pyre
I was opening
the door.
I was moving
towards the key.
I was preparing
to witness
a murder.
And I don’t know
what to do after.
Should you wash
your hair with lemongrass
or rocks when
you are flayed.
How can i feel the wind
when I’m outed with
no name branded
on my arms.
I was holding hands with
a gilded half-god called
safety.
My friends had gathered
baby breath to make a
noose around my wrists.
They wanted to hold
me in place
to hold me above
the aim of your breath
Dividing Us And
DIVIDING US AND
the divine is tortue.
we trace the outlines
of animalistic bodilessness,
softly spotting out hope
like it’s a sour cigarette-
and you only have a name
because it is supposed
to save you
so what is the fleshy
corpse, lying on his side
stripped, dead, burning
the eyes
that are yours
so what line do we draw
between a dead man
and god?
perhaps it is our bones
rotting, lucid, and cradling
our other selves
Jude Armstrong (he/they) is a young poet based in New Orleans. He is the founder of Verum Literary Press and has been published or is forthcoming in Bullshit Lit, fifth wheel press, renaissance review, Block Party Zine and more. He loves 80s music and a good film.
