I've been busy scanning and archiving past issues of Original Plumbing: Trans Male Culture Magazine! Each issue focuses on a particular topic, from labor to parenting to environmentalism to art and more. Though OP centered on transmasculine folks, people of all genders are featured. These are incredibly well-designed and edited magazines--I can't recommend them enough! I scanned 11 issues, which are now available on archive.org. Links below the readmore! Some magazines feature nudity and sexual/erotic imagery, so please be aware of that while browsing.
queer writer, artist, historian
- he/him
- linktr.ee/jackdawmarc
anglo-indian | gay transsexual man | leftist | 30+
posts from @jackdawmarc tagged #writers on cohost
also: #writing on cohost, #writers of cohost, #writing
another digital collage, this one for my poem dedicated to the Berlin specimen of archaeopteryx, frequently described as one of the most beautiful fossils ever unearthed.
and you, young and foolish one
keen to prove you're no longer a fledgling
chasing the whims of your kin and kind
take wing and lunge towards that thing,
in the shade and stink of fruiting gingko trees, that sparkle
caught in the trap of your eye.
a sparkle of something new and curious.
you lept before looking. your wings, unprepared by eons
unable to support your bones in the water's embrace.
and so the water claimed you, poor, lovely thing
the shimmer of your wings, glittering silver panic.
with your death the lagoon whispered a promise,
asking only for your patience in return.
and you, with quiet pride, waited
still as stone in your grave
only when the water drained did she make good on her promise
and you spread your wings--
flew into eternal life.
originally posted on digital rot.
another poem paired with a digital collage. wrote this one while ruminating on the lives of Lou Sullivan, Alan Hart, and so many others before us. transcript below:
a poem inspired by kink, trans embodiment, and revolution.
obediently I will cling to your shining boots
my body a barren plot
soaking wet when you stand atop me
when you dig your fingers deep
I am a garden for your seed
that will bear no fruit
yet our forest towers above
its canopy spreads
touching the sun
setting the country ablaze
originally published on digital rot