Lessons On Starvation and Other Poems- Jasmine Gibson

Lessons on Starvation

Your mother will compliment your figure

As psychosis pokes through the hips

‘A historical materialist analysis of generational starvation: a comedy’

Walk over to the lamp post and call out his name

Paris streets stank of barbecue and empty roosts

Brown bodies learn to float in all bodies of water

on coasts of the new and old world

Its called modernity

and the end of everything post-post.

Do people really believe they have better things to do than struggle?

Lovers can whisper about imperialism, if you want them to

You can scream in the light, if you need to

We lie about our youth, just feel out flashbacks and trauma.

God is blessing all those that feel negritude the most.

Doing the most.



To die totally alone in our rooms

As the rub of subway doors hits along the seam of your jacket

Threatening “to open up”

Let it

Sniff into the glass and smell the poison

Drink deep

Condos and psych hospitals side by side so that you may find your way

Baby boy’s mind shattered in the brothels of Puebla

Border Indian casinos for white anxieties


Unanswered Messages

Would you want my youth wrapped around your cock?

Love is fickle and forces one into the balminess of memory

just to remember, it is a false memory you’re looking for.

I got so busy looking at the past when

I forgot to look up at the changing of the leaves


The people want their anthems and

Their black women, like their horses

Being beat,

Feeling no pain.


Devil makes three:


Can you let black and brown people be righteous

when they’re alive or will you continue to place artificial flowers at electronic wakes?


It doesn’t matter what ‘it’ is or whether ‘it’ could let ‘us’ be

But rather it was

Communism as a place we could get to

And the love we could never realize

And asking the question “can I fit inside you?”

Everyone has told me to be with you only if I could give you

everything that I told you I could not give you


You continue to complain of cold houses


These are all lies.

Like the color of his eyes.

Like the lines of a Whitney Houston interview of a Diane Sawyer.

White women have told me I couldn’t have pleasure

And I plunged deeper and deeper into train lines

where crust punks and hobos go to die.


It keeps me up at night

Thinking of all the times I should have slapped you

And I didn’t


When will you accept blackness as the

Exterminating Angel

And that there is joy in burning shit

With abandon.


Nothing left to say

There are definite tasks

Behind all that earth, behind all that cement

that lines prison and school yards

Where does God lie

When I cannot touch you?


I could count on a child’s hand the months and years

that it takes to amount to hegel’s infinity

It is an equation with no answer and no future

Is it suppose to feel like this?

Am I supposed to be like this?

Queen of aches


I won’t be here forever, especially once I delete this account

Why call it social media? Can’t you call it what it is like:

Wasteland, and other space and other blank spaces like

“That really hurt_____, I didn’t want it that way

but you made me. _______, you already knew about me, baby.”

And who knew God could sneak into those tiny spaces.


I tried to find you in the picture of hanging flowers

Feeling hard up and frustration sticking you in the side like Brutus’s dagger

But I was Julius crying for you to come back or at least take me with you


I keep telling you it’s not your fault, it’s not my fault

It’s no one’s fault

And it’s all our blame

And the historical process of

Marcus Garvey park jutting into me like a monolith



Jasmine Gibson is a Philly jawn now living in Brooklyn and a soon to be psychotherapist for all your gooey psychotic episodes that match the bipolar flows of capital. She spends her time thinking about sexy things like psychosis, desire and freedom.

Tschabalala Self  builds a singular style from the syncretic use of both painting and printmaking to explore ideas about the black female body. The artist constructs exaggerated depictions of female bodies using a combination of sewn, printed, and painted materials, traversing different artistic and craft traditions. The exaggerated biological characteristics of her figures reflect Self’s own experiences and cultural attitudes toward race and gender. “The fantasies and attitudes surrounding the Black female body are both accepted and rejected within my practice, and through this disorientation, new possibilities arise,” Self has said. “I am attempting to provide alternative, and perhaps fictional, explanations for the voyeuristic tendencies towards the gendered and racialized body; a body which is both exalted and abject.”

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