Genesis by Lauren Binns | Wednesday Double Feature | One Poem Only

0:00Wednesdays are a double feature, one poem here on one poem only, and one more on Instagram, two poems, one poet, listen, watch and share the real. Today you'll hear from Lauren Bins. Man made woman, also you say. The love of the myth of your own hands, creons fleshing out your fairy tale, half a heart snagging at your fruit, wear it down the size and spit it out. Burved as an afterthought. Plastic ribs are my menu, the warped mould still cooling face down in your shame. Dress it up, make it pretty little Barbie boy. You have spent feverishly undressing toys, detachable heads littering the floor. You make me want to melt my face off, burn it until I'm sludge, stuck to the bottom of your shoe, dragging you down with me. Boys will be boys. You say you can make me moan, pin me down, make me wet, breath quickening, spilling red, mine not yours, sat a fret.

1:00Hunt us for sports, your birthrights in play, such an alpha, make the wolves afraid. Self-discrored protector and provider of what gun cocks, ban be shot, oh dear what a fucking shame. Venison on the menu tonight, your mandated God-given right. But did you see what she was wearing? Flesh, fur and skin, doe eyes, fucking bitch. Wet rivers running, snott bubbles pop for dream undone. You say I'm so pretty when I cry. Gross. 62 million seats of the table, meat must be rare, the fresh of the better, tissue torn, ribbons of blood, greedily undone, both bound for the table. But it's only cannibalism when you eat your own, and a person's only a person when it has a penis. Right? By her apathy pairs, heavenly glass of red spilled on the carpet, mental gymnastics, bent her back backwards. The truth is yours to mold elastic. Behind closed doors, he says she says redacted. His clothes locks very six feet deep too cheap for a casket.

2:02Your murder plays out on repeat in my head. God forbid I flip the table and chibber-wave splinters. Oops, too late. I'm in your bones, pocket knife carving out your ribs, just as you commanded. Then I'll be a good boy. Mind your manners, choke it down every last bite, open wide and loot your genesis. Mother is hungry. By Lauren Bins, you can find her on Instagram and Substack at probably a poem. Thank you for listening, Poetry Leather. Find one poem only on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you listen, and stay a while. If you join my Substack or Patreon, you'll get a copy of my book and access to episodes from my audiobook.