I ease myself into his throat
decalescent and substantial
like a memory too exclusive
to divulge in conversation.
I clip his tongue, dance
in the groove of his soft palate,
slide sideways along pink gums
and imperfect teeth.
His first confession
and he’s all nerves
and no etiquette.
Not a word but a murmur,
a subcutaneous plea
extricated from a darkness
so vulnerable it bleeds.
I do not even hear her reply
but I can taste it and it’s as if
all the oceans submerged themselves.
I’ve got one hand flexed
Around the stem of a fertile pen
The other unscrewing
My cardiac valve
If I expose my blood
To the elements
Will I rust?
Tetanus immobilizing
My swaying limbs
*
Resolute or intransigent?
Will I flinch when reaping
Stark white monosyllables
From a verminous subconscious
Or will I burgeon as the Taoist
Spirit ripened through exposure?
*
My falling voice
Creates no ripples
Without witness
Do these despairing stanzas
Animate the way
They were intended?
*
Only foolish men
Need the comfort
Of vanity
Genius is complete
On creation
*
Here I stand
In pieces
A foolish man
Whispering to a crowd
Narcissism inverted
But equally self-obsessed
*
Of my flesh
These poems wear
The same cloak of invisibility
That I have worn,
Heedless of season
An impious hibernation
Silencing dissent
Fearful eyes adjust the margins
That I may continue unabated
To rest
Mediocrity, aborting
Novelty
*
My treasonous heart
Goads my pen
Tap, tap, tap
An illithid stripping
Reveries
From an onerous womb (mind)
An illithid stalking
Psionic walls
Emotional constructs
That lust not for revelation
But preservation
*
Confession, imminent
Vital to the integrity
Of my scaffolding
I must allay these burdens
Or abandon altogether
The wind
*
There is very little left
Of my super ego
I am becoming ID
Impulse over procedure
Viscera over vision
Semaphore over soliloquy
Mascara black, my words
Run on inquisition
Any closer and will both
Go mad
=
This poem is about my writing process I often start out very reserved, locked up, rigid, disconnected from my feelings, insecure I worry what others think, what I think about myself which isn’t good (this isn’t always the case but I am writing daily now and inspiration varies), I edit out things that are too personal. I end up with a few very tense lines and then I get to business hacking down all those barriers, barriers that my extreme shyness reconstructs daily. I eventually get to the vulnerable, juicy center and that is what I try to give you guys. By the time I get to the core I rarely care what anyone thinks because at that point it is all about the writing. Writing is cathartic for me because I tend to be very very inhibited normally and I feel like myself when I write. The reason it sounds like multiple poems simultaneously is because that is actually how I write, several poems in the same breath all running together sometimes of a similar theme sometimes of very contrary themes. I will invariably use all the poem but maybe not at the same time if it doesn’t fit together sensibly. This time I left it because I wanted to show you the untamed version lol
Illithid if you haven’t heard of one.
Your teasing smile
Abrades my ego
The intimate posturings
Of your limbs
Binding my reservations
Your touch nullifies me
I withdraw self-consciously
Too famished to warm your flesh
–
The curve of your brows
Rising and falling
Over riotous seas,
Articulates my unspoken needs
The atmosphere shifts
Or is just my neurasthenia buzzing?
–
Desperate for your love
I wait in the paranoia
Of my condensed breath
For you to move
If you pursue
Then I can avoid
The disappointment
Of unwed plans
–
My echo is too emphatic,
She relives the humiliation
Of my incongruous steps
I cannot bare to stand
Too long under observation
I’ll take my exit at the slightest
Falter in attention
–
My belligerent heart speaks
Without being spoken too,
My sullen secrets exceeding
Your pedestrian expectations
Too damaged to be loved,
Too broken to satisfy
A needful equality
–
In your shadow,
Wrapped in a rapturous ambiguity
I might have lingered
But I had to question our status
Even knowing
That we languished formless and unborn
Even knowing
That the definition would dissolve
–
My sin
Is a conscious deconstruction
The need to fix
That which is not broken
A compulsion
To distort nature to my ideals
–
I turn my hooked smile inward,
Cracking open each marrow-filled bone
That I might feed you of my essence
At predigested intervals
–
I never respected
My own privacy
Or the sanctity of your margins,
Unwelcome,
I am guilty
Of trespass and treason
When you leave
The interrogation will begin,
The tears and the apologies
Surrendered to your absence
–
For a time I’ll affix my likeness
To you that I might hate someone else
But the true villain
Will remain unchanged
=
This is painfully autobiographical
I cast off my shackles, the hollow-ringed
Anxiety that tethers ankles and wings to an
Inert platform, to a potentiality framed by the
Deformations of dreams left to harden into a
Sparrow-cell of regrets. I have assumed a slavery
So claustrophobic that my breath is measured and
Vilified for its occupation of space and resources.
Primitive and neglected I flap only, the heavens have
Never expressed my higher instincts. The ceiling hangs
So low that I cannot stand with my back erect, I can
Only stoop, humiliated by self-imposed limitations
=
I cast out these euphemistic silences
The bony dialogues rendered unsteady
By a bewitched tongue, the volatile plexus
Of hysterical butterfly nerves that summon
The essence of rose into the morbid pallor
Of flesh. Blushes erupting, volcanic and
Dangerous, irrespective of the provocateur,
Irrespective of the prosaicness of the incident
=
I cast off false grievances the imagined
Scenarios that decimate will, alternate universe
Alternating between gradations of a black hopeless
Panic. I have experienced the most terrible, despicable
Acts of criminality at the behest of my own imagination
Events that bare not the slightest resemblance to life but
To which I nevertheless offer my paranoid convictions
=
I want to embrace a world beyond my cloistered ego, to
Love mightily, madly and with ruthless abandon let this
Ubiquitous womb of a mind, this bone-guarded architect
Break free like the entrails of a pumpkin scooped cleanly,
Spaciousness allowing for the passage of light. Happiness
Is orange, invigorating it does not last but it will come again
And again if the door remains open, even a window would do
=
(the poem is written about my own debilitating shyness and anxiety but I attempted to write with a bit of a Sylvia Plath/Arthur Rimbaud vibe if that makes any sense whatsoever lol)
mindlovemisery 