This poem was originally published in the first issue of Sunder, an online disability journal. Sadly the journal appears to be defunct, so I have shared the poem here.

This week has brought a lot of grief. This poem was written for departed friends, whose numbers keep growing.

Ghosts in the smoking area

Fuck-eyed on cheap tequila 

in the smoker’s caucus

outside the gay bar

I notice the absences

gaps in the crowd

where Mama L held court 

where queens & whores

& goths & glittering twinks

& leatherdykes & butch mums

blazed across the sky

to land sparkling in the gutter

still burning to the end

Where older queers taught me 

how to roll a durry / see thru 

bullshit / self medicate / how

to propagate shoplifted plants 

how to be kind / radicalise 

rising up out of the gutter

swelling with piss & storm water

while the moon reflected

brightly over broken beerglass

Now the list of the dead 

is so long I don’t remember 

all their names, don’t speak others.

Sometimes we see it coming

other times it’s a quiet fading

or sudden disappearance 

social media panic / search

“Have you heard” / “have you seen”

& seeing them again 

in the vigils & inquests, 

hospital admissions, obituaries 

in the gaps in the crowd 

where the baby queers 

party on, not knowing 

what was fought & lost

for their messy joy