Whit Fuller

For The “Pretty Boys”

pretty boys sleep on beds of roses
catching tongues between their teeth like fish on a line
scribbling words on their wrists and kissing with coffee stained lips
they have never tasted wine
or breathed smoke into a lovers mouth
their diet is solely words and cynicism
one kisses girls and the other is left to die
pretty boys drink holy water
right before their world falls apart
pretty boys are empty headed
falling asleep in each other’s arms
pretty boys are sacred creatures
god spares them no harm.

morality et masculinity

Is he a good man?
I do not know what a good man is
I myself am not a good man
Is a man made good by his touch?
By the way that he whispers words to lovers,
Laughing at the corruption of their faces with blush
Is he enough?
I do not know what makes a man enough
I myself have never been enough of a man
Is a man made enough by his body?
By the way that it moves against another’s,
Reveling in the revelations given to them from his hips
Is he a lover?
I do not know what makes a man a lover
I myself am not much of a lover
Is a man made a lover by his words?
By the gentle timbre of names on his lips,
Acknowledging that there have been and will be more
Is he a man?
I do not know what makes a man a man
I myself was never christened as a man
Is a man made a man by feeling?
By desire of a body and a fitting name,
Wanting only to be recognized for stubble and sleepless eyes
If this defines a man,
Then we are two foolish men
Who will never see the sun again

Queer Poet(x) : There are flowers everywhere and I have not lived 


I pick flowers for someone from the side of the road 
Yellow petals and brown centers
Looking on one another 
Like friends or parishioners to god 
Sun flowers 
I steal them a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet 
Think of their cabaret 
Dramatizations of everything 
It is bittersweet 
To see them in skirts or a dress
When neither of us would address 
The wrong boxes we’d spent twenty years living in 
‘Til now 
The poet will speak of this somehow 
He’ll think of them when he picks 
               sunflowers 
                  from roadsides
or steals 
                  a sip 
of whiskey on a cold night 
Him in a Sunday suit with hair dark 
                    and short lived 
Them in unquantifiable plumage with eyes bright 
                                   and nine-lived 
All effigies for something they have always been and 
         who they never were 

Image ID: Whit Fuller is seen leaning elbows first, chin propped on the back of one hand, face turned to the right with eyes angled back to look at the lens. Whit wears a binder that matches the light skin tone and has a smearing of pink, purple, and blue colour across a visible left cheek.

Hi there, my name is Whit. I'm a queer, trans poet who writes things for the people that I love — there are a lot of them — and sometimes I write things for myself or nobody at all. Previous publications include "A Canticle For Aphrodite" and "A Binary Birdcage". I’m in love with the idea of queer expressions of love and words. If you like rabbits, flowers, or tea and/or ever feel the need to share an experience or moment I’m your man/boy/human/creature. Come be human with me on Twitter and Instagram @@whitwritenow.