Jonathan Kinsman (he/him) is a bi, trans, polyamorous poet. He is a slam champion and has published three poetry pamphlets. Last summer, he did a full run of his debut solo show at the Edinburgh Fringe and his debut collection The Fireman’s Daughter is out now with Broken Sleep Books.
On the John Sebastian Lightship
Overcaffeinated Princess Leia chats shit backstage
while waiting for her cue at the village panto
When Darth Vader was the dame
I never did master the art of the gag reflex
on his “microphone of love” –
he’d say, “as anyone seen my “Barbie?”
Even my Grandma does burpees.
Oh, she’s like fish with a coral allergy!
My cat makes an excellent meringue
with her moles! Deep underground, coming up
when they hear a sound, from all around.
Last week, kneeling on the cocktail bar
with my fingers down my throat, I thought,
how darling, how Y2K, how B-Lister in a black dress
and Giotto Turbo Maxi Bob was in it saying
“I wanna stick it up your jacksy in a minute!”
and “All I need is another man to break the law!”
I was hoping to be inspired in the toilet.
I wandered lonely as a cloud savouring
memories of mammaries rarely found.
Summer’s earth doth seldom claim the frigid
mirth of my worn name…
It’s like they took the embodiment of literature
and made it take a piss behind the lonely
fucking curtain. Shit! It’s time.
Somebody got the shouty man.
Jasmine
In all these falling scraps of paper,
what words can we manage to catch?
A girl from Ecuador blowing cigarette
smoke into her best friend’s tear-gassed eyes.
Wild jasmine: approximate burning time
25 hours. A cormorant alights the ship,
confused by the pretty lights.
The dead cling to my skin like rain-sodden silk.
Leo’s full moon, new transit for Pluto.
Bright burn with realisations – I pray it’s done
How was it? she asks
and the stars shuddered as one.
Everyone say glove
I really dropped the ball today – wonder if anyone will notice
I am flippantly tossing tables as the barman pours another whiskey shot – sing to me
Do you like guacamole? I am scaling furniture when the beds break
I’m carbon dating my journals
Mr Blobby, dead at 53
Paul’s being a poopy poop
Mouldy bananas
Bodies of water
Paul loves wrestling
Not very relatable is it
My glasses are a shield and I can’t take them off
After sixteen years of appropriate onstage attire
the Satellite team finally stopped mentioning the nudity rule
A rainbow flag runs up the stairs
*******************************
Cold nights drawing in reflected in dark waters
We are finger bitten
Afloat in a sea of memories
I am out of words. I have scraped the jar clean,
licked the lid, and sit here full and silent.
