Archives of A Future by Scherezade Siobhan

For Greg Bem


If love as a body peeling its rind of bandages, then us browsing digital boutiques for fuchsia bondage ropes the colour of coral vipers. If the sloe-pupil of your camera as our handsome voyeur, then your hand on my neck, my leg on your shoulder—each act as an acrobat for the trapezes of a less than domestic desire. We follow the bridge of breadcrumbs. Whole-wheat for Hansel and Gretel. We curl like circus animals. Our tails slimly licking the golden hoops of a deep-throated fire. You, flâneur. I, machinist. Together the metallic linger of mornings cusped on deboning knives & the odor of gasoline rising from the floorboards. You are practiced in prying meto an again unfathomed trench as if drilling for oil wells in the heart of the Atlantic. We have diagrammed the debauchery. We have discussed the osmosis. I have shown you its where and water. Your hands reaching into my chest are twin snow leopards cleaning their teeth on deer marrow. Or the Ivy trellis of a church terrace. Or the gutter opium basement of a sweatshop. The borderland between perdition and the pleasure seeker. If love then nudge, merciless, mercenary pointing the riot to his bayonet’s tip. If love then your card game tucked in my garter: the electronic kismet of hold the moan. Holed in halls the hull of humpbacked whales. Claws praised into a cocked gun. Kefir the colour of cum splatter growing in flesh satchels of Russian aristocracy. Rime & orifice; a string of pearls, amber liquor & the dust of angels coating the argot. You are drowsy. I am drowning.


You hate Tuscany. You think it resembles the frozen blood of an open wound left to mourn in snow. Even though it is your yellow-blaze, your sunflowered earlobe, your egg yolk canvas of Van Gogh. The table fan is stammering a feverish dialect across all its three tongues.  Your body is a lyric for the loss we won’t ever name. This here is the rented kitchen’s granite riddled in zucchini skin mimicking the imprint of water snakes, a slab speckled in fish scales, unwrapped Hershey’s kisses the same size as my nipples.  This is your hand melting its raw butter between my breasts. This is between gutted and gluttony. A dinner menu & DMT.  A freshly minted pornographer of kaleidoscopic sleep.


We become what we borrow. A cat named Figaro pawing Indian gooseberry on the tin roof.My delta of Venus. Your bracken Equator.  An astronomy of birthmarks and battle scars. A God who drinks from the clayen bowls of his concubine’s terra cotta breasts. Altars of thuya. Puppet bones in mossy wells. Headless dolls buried under park benches. The faint teardrop of blood blotted on the bulge in your corduroy.  I want an exhibition of dirty verbs. A lacanian parenthesis. A sleazy psychoanalysis of glow-in-the-dark handcuffs, bathroom stalls and broken stairwells . A thumbed Polaroid of your need to feed me smoked meat. Our impulse going from acid to ayahuasca. Dropping. Dripping. Drooping.

If love then having a body that continuously sings about its silence. Praise for our bladed boundaries. Praise for our blurred bodies.

Scherezade Siobhan is an Indo-Roma writer, psychologist and an interpreter of mirrors. Her work has been published and/or is scheduled to appear in Queenmobs, Fruita Pulp, Cordite Poetry Review, Black and Blue Writing, Winter Tangerine, The Nervous Breakdown, Harpoon Review, DIAGRAM, Wasafiri, Literary Orphans and others. She is the author of Bone Tongue (Thought Catalog Books) and Father, Husband (Salopress). She is currently polishing her sparkling macabre while writing a noir novel with 15 strangers for tnyPress’ 16-16 experiment. She can be found squeeing about militant rabbits at and