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T.R. San



cut your hair killdeerskin


EXODY THE BODY close your

eyes it’s                   i-i-i-EYE my friend & not

                  the halo & its dried clay

sub-merging totality into

                                 fracture ; oneness


of my sex taking               off the veer

                   that of which periphery is made

when i embody change & not flesh am i

unhumaning                   myself ?

                                  a question mark

is the most transsexual punctuation

                  oh get rid

of those bangs i have nightmares




When a man dies you can’t quite prove it.

Death is not a clinical thing.

To what extent does breath constitute a life epitomized?

When I died I was more alive than ever.

No commas.




I KNOW DUST DOESN’T REALLY HAVE WINGS but dust in the air is not dust

          on the ground we have to have a name for it a name inaugurates meaning

                    inaugurates existence & we can’t just ignore dust that recognizes you

                              & not your shoe sole



so i propose doing away with names if any so nothing can ever get its

existence enacted & then all of us will have circles cut around us by invisible


scissors & that way the entire paper will disappear every cutout will takeover

nonexistence will be made legislature & we will eat so well even in the winter

because we are rendered dead by laws of the universe i.e. conventional logic *i*

am already dead anyways i use the word dead because i am not dead but is

there any word for self-imposed self-death creating self-life halfway into your breathing

i am dead in a way that matters so very much


On [] island there’s a barber. I dreamed of him. I made him cut my hair.

T.R. San (they/them) is a queer poet based in Yangon who writes horror without meaning to. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Corporeal Magazine, VIBE, and others. You can find them on Twitter @cinemapoem

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