Four Poems

So. I have written several poems (I currently have 27 typed up and in different phases of revision) over the last few months. Since April and the 30/30 challenge I just haven’t felt much like being on the internet. I mostly pop in to read my favorite poets and check for updates to shows I want to see. The social aspect and the pressure of posting have left me unmotivated. That and I have been preparing to travel. I needed to come out to Texas to visit my father and so on. Which is good. We are going into the studio to record some music and I will be learning some sound engineering and production techniques (running the board, patch bays, mic placement, etc.) which I am excited to finally get the nitty and gritty on; But between that and work, and all the other projects I have in the works, my poetry as been back-burnered and I haven’t written much. Or so I thought. Like I said. 27 fucking poems. Oops. And that isn’t including the handwritten shit rotting in my sketch journal. So, I am procrastinating today (I have a fuck-ton of gainful work that my heart is just not in) and thought I’d do something a bit different on The Hodge, post a batch of poems all at once. Enough pontificating and procrastinating, here’s some overdue poetry for the handful of humans that actual read this nightmare (Know that I love and appreciate you more than you could possibly know).

Four poems for my lovelies:

Ready

I’m empty today
Joy has poured so profusely from me
That I am the dull of cavernous ceramic
Ready to contain again
Emptiness the state of openness
The absolute, a hallowed meta
A night, a life, molecules, and earth
Permiability allowing and accounting
For all and none
To fill
To pass through
To nourish
As aveoli in lung
Absorbing to sustain
The larger self
The holographic universe


The Alternate Universe of the Five-Nights Car*

Is a rift randomly generated from the terror-verse
Delivering the misgiving of comfort
But the impossibility of the ever-light
Means something worse
Think of it more in an angler fashion
And you get the nose closer to on
The point being to run
Because some possessed mechanical hell-spawn clown-car action
Is about to open a can of fuck-ass
On your tiny human life
This is their fun
Twisting your skull into exotic new shapes
To evoke the right pitch
A jam-band based around how much pain you can take
While being pulled apart like a pre-nuggeted chicken
A sickening crack and merciful slack
Before they recede in the predawn
To dream about the unique color
Your kidneys were
When they showed them to you

*I wrote this one about a car I saw every night for some time that had the lights left on inside. That battery never did die and it led me to speculate evermore wildly over time; I was also playing Five Nights at Freddy’s at the time and the two became intertwined so I started calling it the “Five-Nights Car”. I left myself the title as a prompt.. I felt this one need some explanation.. Maybe it doesn’t.


Queen

I can’t help but wonder
What your tongue taste’s like inside my mouth
Is it 32 years of tobacco and coffee
Is it closer to copper or manganese
Is there some hint of every lover
That’s lingered there before
Can I taste some of the ineffables you’ve been through
Is there some trace of wisdom on your breath that I could take in
Do you have secrets that impart on contact
Do you taste like every joy
Are you more acquired like despair
Aged to perfection like a fine whiskey
Or cleansing like bathtub Juniper

Fuck it
All this sickness and black and green oozing from heartstrings
I need a stiff drink right this instant
To dilute how acrid my own mouth becomes
When I think of you


The Frustration of Fluidity*

It sucks to be an object to people
To have everyone asserting their
Pre- and Mis-Conceptions about being
Inserted regularly and always unwanted
Unsolicited hate speech as life advice
With a glaze of courtesy and dismisal
“Just sayin’s” that nullify my feelings
Making it matter-of-fact
Rather than your mouth-shaped asshole
Here’s a potato masher to sift the shit

What you are just sayin’
Is that me buying a cup of fucking coffee
Is an invitation to preach the good word
Another speech about flock schlock
If I dressed a little differently I would be so attractive
And if I just got rid of this incomprehensible dyke hair cut…
(Like my exterior is an indicator of the quality of my contents)

And I must be so sad and lifeless
Because I came to the waterfront for some night air
And it was the all-black ensemble
Not your commentary
That indicated my depression

More like leaving the house stresses me the fuck out
Because people refuse to leave me be
Purposefully ignore me
Spill hot coffee on me
And don’t make eye contact
Or apologize

Grab me
Eyeball me
Try to convert me
To their religion
Their opinion
Their brand of mental damming

You know why I’m not made up
To indicate my genetic gender
Because it gets really uncomfortable
To get eye-fucked by strangers and friends
When I stand up straight or wear a tanktop
Heaven forbid a damned dress
And these 38F’s I’m smuggling stop folding
Into the practiced stance of my concave chest

The dual attention of sexual interest and competitive jealousy
Jam me right in between fault lines
I want nothing to do with in the first place
What they don’t seem to get is
That I’m not interested
In threatening or fucking anyone
What they don’t seem to get is
I’ve a low sex-drive
No hunger for contact of other
What they don’t seem to get is
I’m not thinking with genitals
I’m longing for ideas and exchanges
Unfettered by meaningless chromosomal expressions

It’s hard enough to be taken seriously
And all I’m looking to be is a good person
But I keep getting pigeonholed instead
I’m this
I’m that
I’m the other

I’m a blank screen
Filled and refilled in by the fucking filter-head
Conception and fucking going completely out of order
And I get lost in the gender gap

*I wrote this a few weeks ago to vent some of the frustration I sometimes feel as a non-binary, gender fluid genetic female. This is an amalgam of a lot of the pressure and comments I’ve received over my 28+ years (I might at some point write a lengthier version of this as I did leave quite a bit off but who knows). I’ve been aware as long as I’ve had awareness that I was different that way. I don’t have a type at all. I’m attracted to contents more that containers. Not to say I don’t find people aesthetically pleasing, it’s just I appreciate people the way I appreciate art. I see beauty in uniqueness more than in perfection. Though, if I’m being honest, I’ve noticed that people over the age of about 45 seem more appealing to me than people under that line for some reason. They tend to be easier to get along with and talk to. The conversations tend to be more stimulating and run deeper..


Well that’s it. Four poems. I promise when I’m done traveling at the end of the month I’ll get back in the swing of shitting together.. NOW BACK TO WORK  **enthusiastically beats head bloody against keyboard**

~mol

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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