Tag: poetry

I got scabies!

epicene-writings:

I got scabies!
Hundreds of bugs roam
At my surface instead of dust.
My skin
Lives! I am but
An offering, raw,
My bugs biting their way
Into me. Don’t approach me! They’re still
Hungry,
And their cult would mad you.
I got scabies!

;

I got scurvy!
My mouth is a stink hole,
Half-full of black,
Half-full of pus;
I radiate rot when I tell you
About – what? – love!
I refuse acidity, I refuse intimacy
For I got scurvy!

;

But wait – don’t leave!
I got also dyke disease,
So do not get close
To me!
Do not touch and do not stare
Or you’ll end up like me
Gnawing your lonely bones
Again, and again, ripping them
Apart, until
It all crumbles between your teeth,
Drying your throat –
And makes you cough
And makes you puke.

See this? Do not caress!
I got dyke disease.

Contemplating

epicene-writings:

Well, actually,
i dont think it was a pretty day
for her, or a pretty weather
altogether.

;

The soiled sky and cement waves
met only torn cloth, stained
with wine, sweat, mucus, maybe
vomit. I know
what i’m talking about! and I’m saying
Those rocks aren’t pretty.
Covered in dead fishes (still slimy, or carcasses already), dried-up
algae, and seagull poop
– sticky, gross, and, well,
hard to climb. It made
her nails go black
before time.
It wasn’t – at any rate –
a pretty day.

;

Not that there was no sun;
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot, either,
when she stripped the wind that    
quickly reformed behind her body
– that pile of dirty laundry.
Really, there was nothing left
and there was nothing where
the air meets water
already.

;

Well: actually,
she didn’t feel it happening
she just fell
and you know how sea is
when you fall
from that high.

;

Torn
Cloth, a
broken hairpin,
that wasn’t even
made of gold. That’s about it.

;

I’m telling you:
it wasn’t a pretty death
it wasnt a pretty day
it wasnt a pretty sea
it wasnt a pretty
it wasn’t

;
pretty
pretty
pretty
pretty
pretty…

epicene-writings:

Just another regular anecdote

… She had said, and i

Was sitting on the bed

I had not a right to anymore.

*

C’mon, i thought, you knew

This was bound to happen!

You’ve rehearsed the play over

And over again;

You know exactly

What to do.

No suitcase, yet, but eventually

They’ll probably allow you one

Since she likes it when things are done

The way they ought to.

For now, your school

Backpack, your laptop, phone, and chargers;

Your textbooks, notebooks, school books

So as not to fall behind – Remember,

You have to get out of there.

(You know exactly

What to do.)

Then underwear, some pants, and shirts

And don’t forget

Your poetry book.

You’ll stand

Outside, on another street,

And give her a call; she’s your friend,

And got her own flat

In the city, after all.

She’ll surely offer shelter

For a few nights, and you’ll tell her

You’ll do the dishes, take no space

And be quiet. You know

How to be quiet; it’s been so long!

Quick! You’re running out of time,

And it’s not

As if you had ever liked this house

And the whole life she carved out

For you anyway.

You know exactly

What to do!

So why won’t you do it?

Now, why are you still sitting

On that bed? The cat

Isn’t purring in your lap;

You have no excuses

To delay your not-so-dramatic exit.

Quick! They want you

Out, so get out, and take

Your things, since

You know exactly

What to do!

*

And the door

Squeaked slowly, and he

– My father –

Stepped in, declared

– Somber, and looking

At the window:

“Dinner’s ready. She

Changed her mind. You stay,

But she won’t eat with you

Or have contact anymore.

Now think

Of a proper apology.”

*

And i followed him

Through their house,

Then sat in the kitchen,

Eating her dinner.

this has to stay confined to tumblr since my father reads my bigger professional blog. also this is Important™ to me pls validate my traumatic experiences

epicene-writings:

Shame

For the smooth-looking

.

Pretending to be blank, you

.

You.

.

– Melted wax,

Still cold –

Still wax.

.

For the scribbled paper

Crumpled, and thrown

Right into the bin.

.

– Open it: it’s blank,

Blank, a void, yet

Again. You.

.

For the uncrumpled, the deceiving

And the paper.

.

You –

Stamped bodies

Bizarre breasts, distorted

Them. You.

.

Seal the void

Of sex

With the wax

Of shame.

epicene-writings:

Shame

For the smooth-looking

.

Pretending to be blank, you

.

You.

.

– Melted wax,

Still cold –

Still wax.

.

For the scribbled paper

Crumpled, and thrown

Right into the bin.

.

– Open it: it’s blank,

Blank, a void, yet

Again. You.

.

For the uncrumpled, the deceiving

And the paper.

.

You –

Stamped bodies

Bizarre breasts, distorted

Them. You.

.

Seal the void

Of sex

With the wax

Of shame.

Shame

epicene-writings:

For the smooth-looking

Pretending to be blank, you

You.

– Melted wax,
Still cold –
Still wax.

For the scribbled paper
Crumpled, and thrown
Right into the bin.

– Open it: it’s blank,
Blank, a void, yet
Again. You.

For the uncrumpled, the deceiving
And the paper.
You –
Stamped bodies
Bizarre breasts, distorted
Them. You.

Seal the void
Of sex
With the wax
Of shame.

epicene-writings:

Just another regular anecdote

… She had said, and i

Was sitting on the bed

I had not a right to anymore.

*

C’mon, i thought, you knew

This was bound to happen!

You’ve rehearsed the play over,

And over again;

You know exactly

What to do.

No suitcase, yet, but eventually

They’ll probably allow you one

Since she likes it when things are done

The way they ought to.

For now, your school

Backpack, your laptop, phone, and chargers;

Your textbooks, notebooks, school books

So as not to fall behind – Remember,

You have to get out of there.

(You know exactly

What to do.)

Then underwear, some pants, and shirts

And don’t forget

Your poetry book.

You’ll stand

Outside, on another street,

And give her a call; she’s your friend,

And got her own flat

In the city, after all.

She’ll surely offer shelter

For a few nights, and you’ll tell her

You’ll do the dishes, take no space

And be quiet. You know

How to be quiet; it’s been so long!

Quick! You’re running out of time,

And it’s not

As if you had ever liked this house

And the whole life she carved out

For you anyway.

You know exactly

What to do!

So why won’t you do it?

Now, why are you still sitting

On that bed? The cat

Isn’t purring in your lap;

You have no excuses

To delay your not-so-dramatic exit.

Quick! They want you

Out, so get out, and take

Your things, since

You know exactly

What to do!

*

And the door

Squeaked slowly, and he

– My father –

Stepped in, declared

Somber, and looking

At the window:

“Dinner’s ready. She

Changed her mind. You stay,

But she won’t eat with you

Or have contact anymore.

Now think

Of a proper apology.”

*

And i followed him

Through their house,

Then sat in the kitchen,

Eating her dinner.

epicene-writings:

I wanted to call it “Antigone” or something (but I didn’t)

We were walking – walking

Towards flaming

Bushes of knives…

.

(The ocean smelled

Of rotten eggs;

Mad dogs trod on

Its ghostly trees)

.

Light on metal

Blinded us, as

We tripped and trampled –

Walking, walking.

epicene-writings:

I wanted to call it “Antigone” or something (but I didn’t)

We were walking – walking

Towards flaming

Bushes of knives…

.

(The ocean smelled

Of rotten eggs;

Mad dogs trampled

Its ghostly trees)

.

Light on metal

Blinded us, as

We tripped and stumbled –

Walking, walking.