Jul 8 17

Lisa Luxx


Lisa Luxx is a British Syrian writer, performer and activist trying to shake the west out of its slumber. She writes for the freedoms of Self, of reality, of body, of community, of revolt.

Published by Tate Britain, New River Press, The International Times, Tribe de Mama (US), The Numinous (US), i-D, The Sunday Times and more. Celebrated in the press for her “revolutionary writing” from BBC Arts through to Well + Good NYC. In 2015 she was named one of the top 4 queer poets to look out for by Diva magazine.

In 2017 she released a collection of poems and essays called The 4th Brain, which follows the journey of a millennial searching for connection. It speaks of revolution, evolution and sisterhood. Published by Prowl House Books and illustrated by Elizabeth Clough, curator of London’s Red Door Studios.

She is founder of post-net magazine Prowl, and its parent company Prowl House. Which ran as a hub for radical artists and a platform for unheard narratives within independent art.

Shortlisted for Peace Poetry Prize and Saboteur Awards Best Spoken Word Performer. She now lives in Yorkshire and gets more northern by the day.

“Lisa Luxx is phenomenal, a poet of guts and heart, she is alive with fire and truth. Her poetry always makes me wish people would wake up, for it is a fact listening to her I’m reminded how much we’ve all been sleeping. These are the songs we sing when we are brave, when we have our eyes open, this work will be remembered long after we are all gone.”Salena Godden

The Civil War

She wears untold stories

Like a brace across her teeth

Boldly walking to a new identity

Leaving footstep trails so others may see

But the rulers of history hover behind her

And sweep.


Thick hair in a bun

She wears at the front of her head

A dyke quiff, she quips

And tattoos the double Venus

Onto her neck.


If you didn’t know, now you do

If you didn’t know, do I need to tell you?


On a Wednesday morning she goes to town

Slips an eye-liner, from Superdrug,

And lipstick down

The sleeve of her coat.

A dark, blood-shed Arabia red

Licks her lips

Like flames singeing cloth on the dead.


She writes across her eyelids

In the black inky pen

Don’t assume I’m white

Because I look like you

Privileged by face

But you haven’t a clue

How many bombs go off in the holes of her skin

When she’s quiet outside,

There’s civil war within.


The furnace of our ancestry is constantly burning inside

Sending smoke signals from the pit of our stomach

To the glint in our eyes.


Some people were born to be weapons

They had no choice but to join the fight.

She was a loaded double barrel shot gun

Shooting bent into the tide of white.


Her ancestors speak to her, at night

While Aleppo pine trees morph

Into the pines and wheeze of a new Holocaust.

She hears whispers in her ear

Her role is to be a mother, they say, and so….


She digs a hole in her small garden

While the neighbours watch

In it she lowers the lover she is

So she can become the bearer she was not

Her hair comes down, aside her face

And she sways into the night

Pure breed elites smite her people

And so she must create new life.


She undresses into a chalk outline

To climb into the bed

Of a Syrian man

Writing untold stories across his chest.


The future of our country,

Waits between your legs


To counter the silence that raised her

She gives birth to noise instead.