THREE

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SHROOMS

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ON

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PAINTED

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WOOD

Joss Barton

HOME 

WAS WARM BRAIN FLESH LIKE MEMAW’S STRAWBERRY JELLY LIKE GOOD OL’

BOYS CHEWIN’ SKOAL GROWLING AT SISSIES THAT THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT IT

IS BUT THEY KNOW WHAT IT 

AIN’T

HOME

WAS THE SMELL OF PINES WHIPPING ACROSS CREEK SOAKED SKIN AS SHE 

RAISED HER HANDS IN THE BACK BED OF THE BLACK BEAT UP PICKUP TRUCK 

BARRELING DOWN A HWY PAST RUSTED JUNKYARDS AND CONFEDERATE 

TRAILERS AND SIGN POSTS POINTIN’ TOWARD TAUM SAUK AS THE BLEACH 

BITTEN TOWEL BECAME A WIND SWEPT GOWN WAVING TO WHITE CROSSES 

AND BAREFOOT KIDS ON LEAD PAINT PEALED PORCHES PITCHIN’

ROCKS

HOME

WAS A DIRT ROAD TO NOWHERE AND DITCH BEDS AND INFINITE BACKWOODS 

AND SHIT PIE COPROPHILOUS COUSINS WOULD FIND OUT IN THE COW PASTURE 

ON RAINY AFTERNOONS AND DIG UP WITH STICKS DARING EACH OTHER TO 

EAT ONE UF’EM 

HOME

WAS GRANDMA WARNIN’ US ‘BOUT HUNTING FOR MUSHROOMS UNDER ROTTEN 

LOGS AND WET LEAVES SHE WOULD TELL US TO ALWAYS LOOK FOR THEM 

WHITE GILLS THEM THOSE POISON WIDOW CAPS AND NEVER TOUCH THOSE

WITCHES RED TOADSTOOLS THOSE OPEN THE DEVIL’S DOOR SHE’D SAY MAKE 

YOU GO PLUM OUT YOUR 

MIND

HER 

WAY OF WARNING HER BABIES OF THE PSYCHOTROPIC REALM A COSMIC

WILDERNESS SIS FREQUENTLY TRAVELS THRU HITCHIN’ RIDES ON THE BACKS 

OF RUBY THROATED HUMMINGBIRD IMPRINTED ACID STRIPS OR WRITHING 

ON POPPER CLOUDS WITH CLENCHED MOLLY JAW AND SWOLLEN CUMDUMP 

LIPS OR CHEWING THE BLUE VEIN STEMS AND BLACK BELLIES OF PSILOCYBIN

CAPS THE HOLY TASTE OF MANURE AND DESICCATED WOOD AND DEATH

BITTERS CONSTRICTING THE THROAT IN AUTOEROTIC EGO-ASPHYXIATION

AS THE WALLS BEGIN TO BREATHE AND THE SOUL MELTS INTO SPORES OF 

TRANSSEXUAL GERMINATION THREADING SPOOLS OF METALLIC SPIRO-THIN

SEMEN SOAKING THRU WONDER BREAD BEDSHEETS THE SMELL OF MOLD AND

METH CLINGING TO THE PINK REPTILE PRINT SCARVES DRAPED ACROSS 

SOFT WHITE LAMPSHADES AND THE CHEMICAL COCKTAIL OF SPEED AND 

SHROOMS HOT RAILING THE FEMME MIND’S EYE INTO DARK CRYSTAL 

DIMENSIONS REFLECTING GRAINY KODAK FILM BACK INTO HER BROWN   

IRIS IMAGES RAPIDLY BLOOMING INTO FIELDS OF WET FUNGAL

FLESH MATTRESSES OF BULBOUS WHITE PUFF BALLS BRIGHT TANGERINE 

CHICKEN OF THE WOODS MORPHING INTO FAT SCRATCHING CLUCKERS 

THE KIND GRANDMA WOULDA CALLED SUNDAY FRYERS FORESTS OF SUNSET 

BLUSHED CORAL FUNGI SCATTERED IN PINK AND PURPLE STALAGMITE 

FORMATIONS ACROSS THE HOLLER FLOOR A KIND OF HYPHAE HEAVEN THAT 

LOUISE WOULD HAVE TRIED TO CAPTURE IN ONE 

OF 

HER 

PAINTINGS HER POETRY IN OILS AND LATEX HER VISIONS THE PEACEFUL 

VALLEY OF THE NATURAL WORLD LADYBUGS CRAWLIN’ UP LEAVES OF GRASS

SHELTERED BENEATH THE SHADE OF PRIMARY FUNGAL COLORS HER SISSY 

GRANDCHILD CATCHES FRAGMENTS OF HER GOSPEL SOUL WHILE SUCKIN 

ON THE MELTING KALEIDOSCOPE LIGHTS TRACING THE BOUNDARIES OF A 

LONELY WORLD HOLY IN ITS WILDNESS HOLY IN ITS EMBRACE OF DEATH HOLY 

IN ITS UNKNOWABLE GOD BROWN STAINED BLOCKS ON HOOKS SHE PAINTED

AND FRAMED HER FOLK ART THESE AMERICAN SPORES BLEEDING SONNETS ON 

HOME

HER 

HOME

NOW A SHELL WRAPPED IN THORNS AND GILL WINGS OF DESTROYING ANGELS  

GLASS VENOM THE FAGGOT CHILD WAS DOOMED TO CARRY INSIDE HER ROTTEN

TEETH THE SHAME MATERIALIZED INTO IRON CAP FILLINGS AND VERSES FROM 

LEVITICUS A MANIC KIND OF RAPTURE SHE COULD ONLY FEEL IN THE FULL 

LAUGHTER OF HER BIG LIPPED BROWN BODY AN INDULGENCE SHE WOULD

HOLD ON TO BRINGING HER CLOSER TO THAT PERFECT STATE OF TRANSGENDER

NATURE

SPORES

USED TO BE THOSE TENT REVIVAL PREACHERS AND THEIR BLOOD FLUSHED 

CHEEKS STAINED WITH SINNER SALT TEARS 

SPORES

USED TO BE THOSE WHITE WOMEN FAWNING OVER HER SPIRAL CURLED HAIR 

SHINY AND SMOOTH AND BLACK AND NEVER DYED AND NEVER  

BRITTLE 

SPORES

USED TO BE THOSE WHITE BOYS AND THEIR PALE NECKS AND CHEEKS PINK 

AND ROSY LIKE THEIR COCKS PINK AND ROSY LIKE THEIR HANDS PINK AND 

ROSY GRIPPING BASKETBALLS AND RIFLES AND BEER CAN HOLES FOR 

TOBACCO

SPIT

SPORES 

USED TO BE THOSE WHITE MEN AND THEIR TRANNY ADDICTED HOT MUSHROOM 

HEAD DICKS THEIR CLEAN AS A WHISTLE TRANNY HUNGRY HOLES THEIR

FRAMED FAMILY PORTRAITS STATIC MARBLED SMILES AND AN UNSPOKEN

KNOWING

SPORES

OF THE HEART FLAMING LIKE HOMOSEXUAL CHARIOTS BURNING HOLY 

FAGGOTRY AND TRANNY TESTAMENTS CRIMSON SILHOUETTES OF COCAINE

GEEKED PUSSY SILICONE LUBED ACRYLIC NAILS CRAWLING ALONG TIT AND LIP

STROKING TO THE VEIN PATTERNS OF YOUNG HUNG JOCKS SMACKING THEIR 

SPIT

LINED MOUTHS DOWN ANOTHER ANONYMOUS SISSY STALK THROBBING WITH 

SUGAR SWEET 

CROPS

SHE

IMAGINES HERSELF LEAD HEADLINE INKED ACROSS THE TIMES OF THE WORLD 

PHOTOGRAPHS OF HER SNATCHED WAISTLINE WRAPPED IN BLACK MOLD 

CORSET AND THIGH HIGH STOCKINGS HER NECKLINE ADORNED IN GOLDEN 

TEACHERS A CHUNKY PRECIOUS CHOKER OF DIRT WASHED YELLOW 

AND GOLD UFO SAUCERS AND HER SLIME DRIPPED LEGS DRIPPING WET WITH 

A CRINOLINE OF COPPER SLICKED WOOD 

EARS

SHE

LISTENS TO THE CALL OF THE AMERICAN TURTLE DOVE OR AS OLD TIMERS

CALL HIM THE MOURNING DOVE A BIG DICKED SELF SUCKIN’ FEATHERED 

FAGGOT HE TELLS HER ‘BOUT THE BEATINGS DADDY GAVE HIM AND THE 

FEARS HE FEASTED ON IN STAINED GLASS BIRD-FEEDERS HE WRAPS HIS LEGS 

‘ROUND HIS SISSY SCRUFF REDNECK AS HE PECKS AND LICKS HIS STIFF COCK 

THROBBIN’ WITH CRACK SMOKE AND PENTECOST HIS PUCKERED HOLE A 

RING OF SMOOTH PINK GILLS GASPING FOR FAME AND DECOMPOSING

FAUNA   

HIS

COOS CONJURE A GLIMMERING WALL OF SEQUINED LICHEN MEMORIES A 

BIOLUMINESCENT DISCO OF GLOWING GRIEF TRAUMAS AND TALL TALES TALL 

BOYS OF PALE LAGERS AND NIGHTMARES OF PALE HORSES LONESOME LOVERS

SPINNING INTO GLORIOUS HALLUCINOGENIC HELLS WHERE THE PAIN IS PICKED

FROM THE ROTTEN ROOTS LIKE MORELS IN MARCH TEAR SOAKED AND 

TREMBLING SHE SLICES OFF THE BITS OF BRUISED AND SOGGY SPONGE THAT

REMIND HER OF THE SILENCE SHE WAS FED AS VIRTUE AND DELIVERANCE

CUTTING THRU THE FUNGAL BODIES OF FACISM AND SELF-DESTRUCTION SHE

FINDS HERSELF FREE OF THOSE FALSE GODS FREE OF THOSE NEON CAGES FREE 

OF THOSE FRONTIER FANTASIES FREE OF THOSE FAGGOT FEARS BUT NEVER 

FREE FROM THOSE SPORES WE CALLED HOME MAYBE THESE MEMORIES ARE

BUT TWANGS ECHOING OFF BLUEGRASS TWILIGHT A BUTTON CAP SPOTLIGHT

OF QUIET LOVE LONGING TO BE HELD A CEREMONIAL FIELD OF BURNING 

TULIPS AND PAGAN FUNGI DANCING IN EMBROIDERED CIRCLES ‘ROUND THE 

BARN

HER

HEART AS SIMPLE AND FULL AS THREE SHROOMS ON PAINTED WOOD

Joss Barton is a writer, journalist, and spoken word performance artist exploring and documenting queer and trans* life, love, and liberation. Her work blends femme-fever dreams over the soundtrack of the American nightmare. Combining prose poetry, non-fiction confessional essays, drag artistry, and spoken word stage performances, Joss examines the myriad states of queer trans womanhoods from historical, political, and pop cultural identities of death, desires, dreams, and disco.