Binary Rules

To a certain degree, at a certain point, the body prison harasses the spirit. This is what they call contingency. To be male, but not masculine – nor even feminine, in that regard. To be a-gender, a-sexual, a-morphous; but not a-political, a-pathetic, a-pologetic. The body prison offers no middle ground, but a battlefield. Who I am and what I am are polar enemies of reason.

Again, to be male, to be hairy, to be deep-voiced, to be short-hair-headed, to be the owner of large hands, large arms, large calves, a thick jaw, thick chest, thick toes – to be all that I cannot be, wish to be, want to be. To be or not to be within the framework of the body prison, my body prison, marks the death of what could have been, would have been, should have been.

A male privilege so raw it must be cooked and cooked again to ensure that each and every toxic fiber poses no more threat than the petals of a wild flower that only needs to be basked in sun-rays and baptized by the holy touch of uneven rain.

My body prison is a redemptive prayer to all the afflictions inflicted. In other words, and in other worlds, an inflectional ending of a word so crude in its bestowed-upon power: male-ness. The horror, the horror. A heart of darkness, void and Con-niving. The body prison ought to be history re-written.

Who I am and who I want to be are two separate warriors – they ride opposing waves of binary sea-rulers. Why should anyone be encased in corporal literature that addresses nothing but the two end-covers of the same book. My body is the story in between, provided it can be erased.

The arsenal between my legs gives the half-eaten moon a wobbly nose. Love can be made differently, separately, independently of a rod. Queer culture cracked the code, but it pretends as if it didn’t. My body prison is a prison of non-normative values upheld, uprooted, upended in small circles of small-town misfits who drink themselves silly and steal glances from one another – lest anyone finds out their own limitations.


The body grinds itself down to powder. The body, the a-temporal temple, the ultimate apathetic punk object - and it is an object for you don’t own your body. No one started from zero; but nothing is in half, nothing about the body can be. The body is a parasite, my parasite, and so it becomes fetishized in philosophy and weekday cafe talking points, young women sitting and sipping bitter coffee and talking about body without organs, inhabiting the Parisienne from looser, better corners of the world, although it is often neglected that Nana’s body was never her own. Where coffee is served with sweeter milk and deeper color, even atheists see their body as their child, raised by them but ultimately free in and of itself. The body is disposable, not only in death but in life as well, for those who love what the body offers – and for those who love the truth. In colonized minds only, prisons are more than the body itself.

I once dreamt of Foucault and invited him to tea. I called him Michel, endearingly. I didn’t understand that how I saw the world was fundamentally different than others - fundamentally so, because there are no poles on the magnet I call my own attraction. From north to south, all corners of my earth are the same, I get attached to anything. I don’t remember his response: but he was kind. I looked and indeed behaved different to his academic peers, but the depravity in my eyes were no dimmer than those he knew inside out. I knew he would die very soon but he, he was convinced that he had life. He looked at me upside down, not agreeing to tea, but he whispered something else entire to me.

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There is no power in resistance, but resistance in the power given autocratically. What a moronic glib, I blasphemed – for isn’t he a modern deity of piss-dispensers? Even within the infinitesimal space of that dream, I knew better than to accept the volumes of alphabetical arrangements suited to glorify my hamartia. Ne pas céder sur son désir, Monsieur le Fou. But, Lacan dearest, what if my desire is a negative space in your school of barren thought?

My body prison finds no comfort in your philosophy. Trust me, humble Hegel, I tried to resort to your Zizekism, but – uh – uh – uh – uh – uh – uh – uh – my nose is – uh – uh – uh – uh – uh – part of the problem as it dares put breath into this prison. Pure idology set to fry my anatomy into a sad farce told in academic chatter comprising of men who assumed intellect once they overcame a theory: Anthropology is not poetic.

But how come my body prison is a verse in Whitman’s Body Electric shock-waves? It is the depression an asteroid imprints with its alien foot over the face of a planet; an exo-body of an exo-planet of an exo-micro-universe. It is the pimple on an otherwise slick, well-tended face.

I doff my clothes and observe the first sex, second sex, third sex, fourth sex, fifth, sixth, seventh, eight revolution over a miserable third-worldly, de-colonized self. I am the crucified, the crucifier, and the cruci-fix. The holy trinity of a gender apostate. No sound is more soothing than that of a shaving machine; I merely wish I could use it on whatever that sticks out like a rootless appendage. For I am the love-child of where two binaries piss. My body prison pre-existed in his and hers before they’d even met.

My body prison is home for an over-sexualized featherless dove. Get thee to a nunnery, I tell it, before I invert you and other you.


The imaginary ends of the spectrum
dont haunt me
despite a childhood
of being told I am the of the weaker marks.

My body so sorrowful
and ashamed
I am decidedly woman
in solidarity

Til the world balances out
and my pussy isnt
begging that woman doesnt again
become a mark of shame

There was the time I realized
Actually there were two times I realized I was not human.
I am just not sure what else to call self.

besides Alive.

The first time I realized I was not human
was during the usual depressions that follow
that follow
that follow
that follow disgust at the state of the world.

The second was when I was with a bunch of smart black academics
sitting around a table in New York.
Our leader provoked,
What is human and who is human?
Only white men have ever had human rights.
This idea of human doesnt actually apply.
Why are we severed from self through categorization?

I think therefore I am…i think…
am I?
Enlightenment era, iracus-ing out.

So many attempts at escape.
When death is inevible
and feared.

unit of life
am you thinking?

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These realizations create a self-self dyad. Remember what they say about the creation of the universe? That an atomic split generated an imperfect design, the universe? Dead things (half-dead); living things (half-alive). My body prison is a factional argument that sells itself as a scientific paradox.

I read somewhere that you should keep silent next to a stream – what, then, should I do when my stream of think-ing and reason-ing is unintelligible and indiscernible? I yell and ask, “What? What did you say? Agency? Bravery? Contemplation? Is that your ABC-dic rule of thumb?” Thus I surmise the misery of my body prison out of which the stream leaks its bipartisanship.

Dearest body prison,
The gamut of this text lies at the heart of its anthropocentric pathos: Only humans recognize these patterns. It’s time to wean the self off the self. Identity politics are rapacious and multilayered. Some cash in on it. Your existential dread funds their pockets – month in, month out, year in, year out. My mind is the advent of democracy; you, however, are so impervious and flippant: you’re the love against which I’ve been warned. Hackneyed messages of self appreciation have no place underneath your skin. You, you, you are (least) beautiful when you flout my words.

Dear body prison – nay; Body Prison dearest,
You intransigent fuck, teach me how to move you, carry you, wear you in a city that has gone underground.

Beware the

Beirut-ify yourself –

Before they govern you, too –
Before they leave you under skin rashes and cinders.

Beirut-ify yourself,

Before it’s a little past 6 in the afternoon, when you thought your day was going to end with sleep.


The other met another
and imagined something hostile.
Perhaps it is because they said something about atomic splits
and then they believed it.

I wasn’t there for that

I’d left school, sought my soul
and was told that in the realm of mind like seeks like.

My body cannot be dead.
Perhaps the mind?
In this atomic split.

This is a painful episode.
All the prisons lost .
And it is a painful episode.

But literature is gendered as well.
and if it is a place to shit, cry
or find anew.
No vocabulary has it figured out.

I know the monster
and i know fear
and send you love and company
in the sadness of the dark,

Fight, or flight
a friend is near.

we are not born complete are we?
are you complete yet?
there are too many extras that i wouldn’t have ordered and are a nightmare to assemble
this womb, for instance
is a waste of space

it would be better off as
extra storage
for a sodastream
or a pyjama case
hot water bottle
spare water bottle
wifi hot spot
loyalty cards
locker key

I would rather have
a staircase to nowhere
between my legs
not even a spare room
you would just hit your head

my needs are so fluid
i haven’t seen land in years
swimming in my non-binary finery
i will do as i fuck

sexuality isn’t practical
and its unsexy to think it should be

are you complete?

it is you who complete us

and we are a nightmare to assemble

Perhaps not complete

but training rounds are over,
no cash to buy a new avatar

It is what it is.
Til I die.
And I’m not dead yet.
No harm in loving myself
got nothing better to do.

Worlds breaking apart
under the eyes
of those who hate.

use it dont use it.
Nightmares can be fun

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And this nightmare, dear Body Prison, dear Binary Ruler, this nightmare is a perfect apeirogon that is trying to fit itself into a formal square. The circular other is thus a mirror of the self within a quadrangular frame. How dare you, then, speak of fluidity when you, Body Prison, are the vessel, not the liquid?

If Fibonacci were to perceive my naked state,
would he still postulate
and completion?
If math fails to calculate
the space oddity that is
this monolithic container,
would language come to
break me free from this

Dear Body Prison,
Your mind was molded into being polyglot. They taught you three languages that read from left to right; and one more that reads the opposite way; right to left; your maternal language – or paternal – or fraternal – or sororal linguistic whateverism. A classmate once pointed out that ‘trash’ in Arabic is feminine – I told him that ‘shit’ is masculine. So which is it? Why does it matter? And why is language so heavily mis-gendered that when I have to convey myself in words, my plurality is revealed.

Dear Body Prison,
You’re a thinly veiled singular non-entity viewed as a collection.


the body laughs in return.

do you speak body prison language?

or just math, science and word.

the body knows how to fight.
if that is what you would like.

but my body is no prison
and we spend my time
love languages

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My body prism

Who is talking?
Who is behind the MY of the body
My body
My prism

Dear body prism
That which is not one and is less than plenty. What strange gendre is the forest?

What gender is the comma, what gender is the dot. What gender is the question mark?
What gender is the pond, the lake, the river, the ocean. What gender the vulva, that which is more that two, always touching oneself, the whole clit a mantis around, a nervous —-system around extracting around the whole area. The asshole, the thighs, the mountains and glaciers, the body, the whole body, the extension of you and me and the rest of us. The prism detracting, light. It does tremble with the world, it really does.

Or if my womb were to carry, to shift around, to make space, to push and squeeze and rearrange. If my body would produce a baby with a tiny dick, a tiny cock, the most normative of actions (even kings and queens and inbetweens are doing it!) but also the most queerest of all! How? What strange gender. Prism always difracting. How ironic the pride flag
a rainbow.

oh the binary two, the inversion of the other, the negative, the hole, the stick, the very simple good and evil.

oh poor Noah, what a work you did, what long days, long shifts, long hours, no weekends, no labors rights back then. It is only natural you fell asleep, or were distracted maybe, when you let on the hemafrodites, the intersex, the non-binaries and all the rest of us to sail with you. All the rest of us.

Your vessel ----

is leaking.


my space case is gendered all many things
and make a whole human bean.
and i water the bean (but mostly tea at the moment)
and i sing to it and I listen alot alot
and I await a good
tiny dick fuck

p.s dont worry about the leak, it is just your period

you may share my pillow
i will break your bread
crack your eggs
wine is crying from my mouth
we hold the bag of wine
like we’d hold a baby

in the darker reaches
of the rainbow
i found you

quickly, whilst the screens are still dark!

whatever you are
you get me hard

in the darkest reaches of the rainbow

i found you

whatever you are

you get me hard


There are ways out of the prison. Death, for example.

Perhaps though, we lack the ardor of a suicide. Dear mind, aren’t you as much of a jail, if not more?
You’re my denial, you’re my dissatisfaction, and you are the one who sabotages the most simple escape.

You, greedily unwilling to be one to be one of two, demand to be all. Your ontological avarice is unmatched. The body, at least, is simply how it is, never squirms or changes shape in reaction to a definition. No identity is good enough for you, is it? You reject every classification – do you want to be everything, or nothing?


A lover once told me that my anatomy unfolded beautifully on his mattress. I lay there, sprawled, waiting for the next word that would shatter and break open my skin tissue. “Thank you for coming,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if he was being funny. For my body prison could have possibly been a joke, a punch-line, a verse in a holy script lampooned by knowledgeable fucks.

Binary rules are bound, airy rules during fuck-fests. “You are so [insert flattery]. Oh, my God. You’re so, so, so [insert second flattery]. I want to [insert action] you so badly that you [insert reaction] all over me.” I read somewhere that climaxing is akin to reaching a God-like stage; that, in some cultures, climaxing is considered as the closest thing to seeing the face of divinity.

But my eyes roll back, as if intentionally, to inspect the blacked-out void of the body prison. Where is the face of God? It’s not within.

If the body be a temple,
then I am an apostate.
If the body be a temple,
then I shall turn it into a museum.
If the body be a temple,
then the mind has no home.
If the body be a temple,
there may as well be a trinity –
not a dual existence.

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I barge into the ruins

“so this is yours?”

It is mine

“Don’t mind if I don’t knock a few walls through”

Actually, I’d like it intact. but you seem nice

“I’ll have you feel no esteem in no time. For anything.”

Walls and bubbles: binary safeties. Breaking walls and bursting bubbles: less morbid recantations. There’s yet another one: Break glass in case of an emergency. Why can’t those language clowns invent a flesh-ier expression? There are no walls, no bubbles, no glass worth breaking – mere flesh waiting to be flashed by force.

Fraudulent and flatulent fervor of one’s own ego – the prisoner – needing so pathetically, so desperately to be recognized as an object of worship, let alone desire. Love me as I am, one tells one’s potential love.

Here goes: Dear whomever, you who have chosen to fetter my self-hate, prithee, love the mole on my left collar bone as it is the brightest moon in my galaxy. Love my large nipples, for they are Castor and Pollux – the brightest constellation of my fat-laden torso. Love the the overgrown hair around my thighs, for they constitute the grass of my secret garden, my monolithic sex. Love my varicose feet and ankles, for they are the reversed catacombs of a poor land that is yet to be mapped out.

Dear whomever, my body prison is a cyborgian writer whose right-hand-knuckles crack like a twig when they attempt to to de-code their DNA title. Every time I coerce my fingers into writing the name that was given to me (by them, the duo), something happens to my pen. I would begin with a J, which almost looks like a bloated fleur de lis; later, I would add an O, tall and lean; and just as I try to define the curves of an S, my pen loses its libido. It breaks in half, wilts like a dying flower, burns up in dramatic flames, or just stops spitting ink. In one instance, I thwacked it so hard onto the paper-blankness, it vomited all the ink it held in its cylindrical belly. The body prison should never have been designated a nom propre, but such is the way of the world. One, two: First, Last.

I once asked my ex why he had such a long name on his passport. “To make sure that it’s really me,” he said, not missing a beat. That’s when I concluded that I had to change my name – to make sure it’s really me, to ensure that this prison has a name, and all that which is named can be destroyed. Destroyed and remembered: a binary sequence.

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