So, I’m participating in this year’s National Poetry Writing Month. Despite my contentious relationship with poetry, I felt it would be a good exercise to force me to create more often and more self-critically, as I tend to be with poetry over prose. NaPoWriMo also coincides with National Poetry Month in the US and Canada. I also realized that whoever reads this probably wouldn’t want to be spammed with daily poetry, so I decided I’d just bundle all the poetry from a week together.
If you haven’t gotten my drift, there’s some strange sexuality in my work, so this is a warning.
That said, here you go:
he sat pale in the corner
collecting dust thoughtfully picked
to pair but forgotten for parties sans
dinner, reflecting light when she turned his way
but she didn’t
parties sans dinner, no screw for corks just
vodka screwing and shots
Driver (pt. 1)
White lights on asphalt curves,
there were empty streets and neighborhoods and you
spoke of freedom and humanity and you
pulled over to the gas station and bought hot dogs.
Straight legged jeans swagger, counter culture refugee you
defector from cafes and concerts, at home on the night road
my home was your passenger seat watching street lights
shadows on buildings that closed before 10
taco wrappers on the floor and empty cans.
Love was blow jobs by the dumpster, knees on asphalt your
knees on the carpet of the passenger seat my heels around your
shoulders you begged I’d whisper filthy secrets in alleyways;
Love was all the secrets of defectors I never knew until you
pulled over and bent me over and handed me fast food napkins after.
Maltharis, Hypnogogue, and [temporarily redacted] are safe for work, after the cut.
I don’t usually write anything remotely fantastical anymore, and the whole story to this poem is a bit long, but for some reason some things are better in myth.
Matharis and the Illusionist
You have winced at words and
images; she slung venom and
ambrosia gutrot and nectar all
dripping from the lips you
kissed years ago vowing
courtly dedication then bowed out
gut tucked under, legs buckling.
Chest forward, gaze unwavering
shining under the spotlight an arc of
white glistens under your
lips, and she lingers still
admiring from the shadows, and you
laugh hollow and glance only in passing and
dust falls from letters she left you
written in candlelight.
The witch can be trusted for she
bleeds, deep wounds glistening from false smiles and
denials lingering behind kisses she won’t
spit venom on your white face, only the
shadows behind you will wince where you left them.
Gray spirals on the ceiling and
fan blades swimming through the dance of
shadows and sleep leaving
ghosts before my open eyes; dry open
eyes, warned to shut before the swirls
before the swirls set in beside me
caressing warm skirts along the mattress like
wraiths made of exhaustion to abscond off to
dreams in color and impending tomorrows.
To sleep; perchance to dream, yet my
gray wraiths reside only in tired eyes
darkness and exhaustion. Butterflies
pollinate flowers like the smoke wafting in
hypnogogia pollinates elation.
[this poem was cut by request, I’ll have a less offensive version up tonight.]