poem

My Private Bonfire

Weird Poetry

If you ever see me

Staring off into the blank spaces

Between the molecules in the air

With my hands clasped

Over the approximate location of my heart,

I am warming the cold

And melting the frozen

Over a private bonfire.

It is inside of me

And you will never see it for yourself.

But you will see it light up my eyes

And curl my lips into countless secret smiles

That you might never understand.

You will see it rose my cheeks

And glisten my skin,

But you will never see it head-on.

You may spy its proof in me,

And you just might see it glowing from a place beyond my pores,

But you might never be able to put your finger on it.

Because it is just for me,

And me…

Alone.

Some things are meant to stay within your bones to melt and evaporate in the boiling bubbling marrow, and re-absorb into the blood. Some things may never escape from the gravitational pull of galaxies and worlds under my skin.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

Tropes

Weird Poetry

Blood

In drips and drops.

In pourings and spillings.

In overflowings and messy splashings.

In courses twisting through words and throbbing veins.

In drenchings and drownings from inside out.

And Wolf

In howlings and growlings.

In skulking at the edge of the forests that line the curves of my blooding heart.

In crying out to the lost and lone, and bringing them home.

In nurture.

In nature.

And Moon

In nocturnal goddesses and the returning and retreating of the blood tides.

In lunacy and lucent laughter.

In birthing and diminishing.

In rebirthing.

In myriad mysteries interred in motes of dust.

And Sea

In thrashing and crashing and breaking over rocks.

In pungent savagery steeped in skeletons.

In sonorous silence.

In aqueous curls of spray and secret.

In violently dark tosses of brine and brack edged by light on my salted skin.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Calling attention to your overuse of certain metaphors, aren’t you, Sweet Bottom? ***

*** That was the point of this poem. I overuse those metaphors and have no intention of stopping. Can they ever grow tired if they never stop being relevant? ***

Improbable Permafrost Burial

Weird Poetry

Here is something I’m sure most of you did not know:

If you manage to bury someone in permafrost, and don’t do it deep enough (which is highly likely because permafrost is frozen ground, and therefore… really fucking hard), the ground will reject the body and push it back out.

…

There is absolutely no metaphor here. But it feels like there should be.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Who are you planning on burying, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** No one… yet…. Still a week away from my PMS zone. Ask me again in about 5-7 days. ***

The brook is always changing

Weird Poetry

Yesterday

The icy edges weren’t kissing

Like they are

Today.

Now the water runs under shimmering sheets of crystal,

And the light,

Dappling through snow-hugged tree arms,

Is blinding my glacial eyes.

I didn’t have to squint as much

The day before.

But it doesn’t bother me —

Because what I can no longer see,

I can hear clear as quartz,

And the brook makes this bubbling bumping sound

Beneath the merging ice blankets,

And it might be

My favourite sound of the season

So far.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Kissing ice sheets over bubbling brook. ***

Photo & gif by moi ❤👽

Mud frogs need the rain to be true mud frogs

Weird Poetry

Mud frogs

Go into a state of brumation

In the winter.

They bury themselves

Deep

Deep

Deep

Beneath the ground,

Beneath the muck and mire and mud —

Sleeping

Still as slow

Barely breathing

Blood flow on near pause.

Then

The rains come,

And the frogs begin to re-awaken

And leave their hibernaculum

To resume their living

And their breathing.

Some of us

Are the mud frogs,

While some of us

Are just the mud.

But there are others

Who are neither;

They are the rain.

The world can be so

Arid

Dessicated

Dry as dead bone

Void of moisture

Void of sustenance

Void of the voidless.

But every once in a while,

In the right season,

At the right latitude and longitude,

The rain comes in torrents and sheets,

And the little frogs

Climb and pull their way

Out of their state of

Suspended life

From deep deeper deepest mud.

Without the rain to signal them,

They might brumate indefinitely…

But they have to wake up

Eventually.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Inspired by “Stargirl” by Jerry Spinelli… such a sweet and touching story. ***

*** Also… “brumation” is my new favourite word. ***

*** Also… my mud frog research might be faulty. Do allow for creative license but correct me if I am wrong. ***

Big Brother

Weird Poetry

You stalk my lines and my words,

And probably comb through them more than I do.

Not sure what you’re looking for…

But I know you will never find it.

I write about as straightforwardly as backwards.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Paranoia much, Sweet Bottom? ***

*** If Big Bro is watching me… I’m watching him right back. ***

Treebones

Weird Poetry

The barren greyscale fingers

Of the cloud-raking treebones

Rattle like an empty ribcage

In the dessicating winter wind.

The land they grow in,

Void of colour,

Void of light,

Remains covered in sprawls of snow and frost

And voidful fissures of blizzard-bitten ache.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

*** For when winter doesn’t feel so pretty and lightlike, and is more grey than white. ***

Moon-eyed

Weird Poetry

She waited there,

Mad

With hysterical laughter wilding in her belly

And blinking stars laying kisses on her damp cheeks

At the foot of the howling forest.

She,

A moon-eyed woman

With wolf fur under her nails

And raised hackles beneath her pearlescent skin,

Could feel the awakening trees from her heart

And knew their branches were already outstretched

And making their way towards her bare dancing feet.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Let’s ring in the new year with a good howl, why don’t we?!? And pucker up… but don’t get your lips caught in my teeth. ***

*** Aaaaa-Woooo! ***

Forgotten Tongue

erotic poetry

I knew you would forget your tongue beneath the lace of my panties,

Tangled in those iridescent angel wings made damp by your fluttering whispers and dripping words,

As your wave lapped at my saline shore

On a morning when tears out-salt the sea.

The beach was strewn with drift wood and pockets beneath the sand of captured sunlight

And secrets scrawled on ancient parchment

As you ached your way into that drenched bloody muscle of mine

In silence, in sighs, in salacious symphony

And cut through my flesh and my pounding soul with piercing inky fingers and hungry teeth.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

*** This is the final poem in my ‘Drafts’ folder. If I publish any more today, then they were one-offed lol But sometimes those are the best poems. Can’t wait to see what 2021 holds in store, and I am not being sarcastic. Sarcasm is for people not smart enough to be funny, and I am hilarious! But yes… cheers to art and words and creativity and love and new beginnings. Down with the ‘rona and racism and anger and all that stupid shit that ruins everything. Let’s just not be assholes for a little bit… that goes for everyone.. especially those consarned virtue-signalling types… there are so many of those wet blankets around… ugh. Wow… that was a lot…. You’re welcome or sorry… take whichever fits best. 🤣🤣🤣👍 ***

Topiary

Weird Poetry

I’m your perfectly pruned topiary:

Coiffed

Trimmed

Sculpted

Moulded

Pruned

To your heart’s desire (stifling anxieties).

I gift you comfort in my de-savaging.

Not a branch or leaf or flower out of place.

Not too big

But just small enough

To adorn the freshly mowed jewel-green lawn

Outside your brand spanking new cardboard cut-out pastel Pleasantville bungelow.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

*** With hair and a spirit like yours, you couldn’t be a boring lawn ornament if you tried, Sugar Tits. ***

*** Well, golly gee, Old Man, that’s the sweetest thing you have ever said to me. ***

The full moon brings me the letter ‘P’

Weird Poetry

Pensive.

Purge.

Part.

Parting.

Parting ways.

Parting seas.

Pruning.

Preening.

Purge again.

Polarity.

Pare.

Paring knife.

Peel.

Peeling.

Peeling off.

Peeling away.

Purge again.

Pierced.

Piercing.

Pain.

Passing on.

Passing over.

Passing away.

Purge again.

Piss off.

Pulling down.

Pulling apart.

Pulling asunder.

Pieces.

Purge again.

Piecing together.

Putting back pieces.

Poem pieced together.

Purge again.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Why “P”? Because of your period or something, Snookums? ***

*** Honestly… I just thought “purge” when I looked at the full moon…. ***

*** There are so many Ps here that they are starting to look foreign to me. ***

The Mystery of the Curiously Yet Aptly Named Thigh Muscle

Weird Poetry

I have been feeling this muscle spasm

In my inner right thigh

For the last two days.

Just a dull ache and quiver

Of the sartorius muscle.

I had to research thigh anatomy so I could identify

The name and place of my physical discomfort (it is really nothing though… just a flutter that didn’t manage to escape my notice. Not even the smallest twinge ever does….).

The sartorius muscle:

It is the longest muscle in the human body.

Its opposing muscle is the gracilis.

The sartorius muscle helps us bend our knees.

It is also very curiously referred to as… I love this… the honeymoon muscle because it further aids in hip abduction and lateral rotation of the hip joint.

Mmmm hmmm…..

I was wondering why I have been experiencing these almost undetectable spasms of ache,

And I think I finally figured it out

Now that I know this muscle’s naughty little nickname.

I thought maybe I haven’t been drinking enough water,

And that is always true,

But overusing the one in question, the agonistic (in this context at least) sartorius,

And underusing the antagonistic gracilis (which helps us clam our thighs shut),

Might very well be the cause.

Also it is important to note that

You don’t need to be on a honeymoon

To overuse that muscle;

In fact, you don’t even need another person (though it’s not quite as fun)

To overuse that muscle.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Slut…. ***

*** You wish, Old Man… I actually do resisted hip abduction exercises on a regular basis, even double ones. The sartorius muscle is not to be underestimated. But I will admit, they definitely help me maintain functional mobility whether in bed or on the couch…. ***

*** Anatomy is FUN! ***

Coiled

Weird Poetry

She wrapped her arms around her throbbing midsection.

She cooed at first…

Then she implored

Her womb,

Like it was an entity that could,

Or would,

Somehow,

Do her bidding,

“Just bleed already…

So no one else has to….”

Then she wept in resignation

As another day of hormonal rage, headaches and fullness

Unfurled before her…

Unlike the very tightly coiled crimson ribbon

Resting deeply, quietly, indifferently,

Inside of her.

~~~

❤👽

~~~

*** Eeeeeeew. ***

*** I am aware that talk of blood (especially menstrual) makes people queasy. Also… you’re a wimp, Old Man. ***

*** I write about my period. It helps with cramps. Sorry not sorry. Don’t read my shit if that sorta thing gets your frilly panties in a twist. ***

A chickadee ate seed from my hand

Weird Poetry

I stood like a stone by the bird feeder

In the cedar tree

Wearing white and grey and black

As if I were trying to match

The skin and silhouette of the bark-encased giant.

In my hand,

A humble pile of sunflower seeds

Used as bait

To lure a black-capped chickadee

Into the fluff of my mitten.

I had tried this a few times before,

But always seemed to lack the patience.

I had to stand there for so long,

My arm growing leaden,

My elbow becoming locked,

The snow falling so slowly.

It appeared still,

Caught somewhere between ‘Pause’ and ‘Play’,

And hung like bits of down on the sleepy air.

I stuck my tongue out to taste it,

And felt licks the size of sharp wee fairy tongues across the bridge of my nose, and on my forehead, cheeks and chin.

I pressed my arm into my side to relieve myself of the pain of gravity,

And allowed my wrist to rest ever so slightly on the lip of the seed dish.

It gave me enough comfort to stand there for just a bit longer.

Funnily enough, the little winter-loving birds were landing all around me,

Chirping and trilling their protestations

Against my invasive presence near their food source.

Squirrels regarded me with annoyance,

And fury-chirped at the boots crushing their midday repast.

But I stood my ground,

And waited.

And waited.

And

I finally turned into the tree,

My woolen hand now a branch,

My face,

A warped whorl in the trunk,

My core,

Pulsating deep within my heartwood.

Here and there,

A chickadee would notice me again,

And puff up the feathers on his neck and skull.

But he would still look at the seeds in my hand,

Yet peck one of the last among the empty shells from the bottom of the feeder;

I felt his resolve and his fear begin

To dissolve.

So I continued to wait.

Then

He jumped onto my finger

And then right off,

As if to test me,

To see if I pose a danger,

I suppose.

I squeaked a bit,

Out of excitement,

But told myself to be stoic

If I wanted him to do it again.

And he did.

But this time,

He stood on my finger long enough to take a tiny black seed,

And fly it

To another branch.

I stood a while longer,

And he did it again as other birds worked up their own courage.

But by then

My arm was numb,

And my toes in my thrifted muk-luks were frozen to the bone.

But at least I can say that a bird ate seed from my hand,

And it was kinda magical.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

*** As they say, this one is for the birds, Angel Eyes…. ***

*** Well, I can’t disagree with that, Old Man. ***

Accidental Nap

Weird Poetry

I fell asleep on the couch

Again.

My head was crushing my hands

Into crabby claws.

Was I clawing at something, someone?

They were so sore upon waking

From having slept them into a contorted wood-like gnarl.

Not all contortion is painful though….

When I looked at my small wrist

Who even looks at their wrist except on the dark days?

I saw a pulsation

Heard it screaming in my ears

Beneath the silken surface of my skin

Beneath two barely-there freckles, a splotch of pink dye,

Beneath those delicate string-like tendons that I can see and feel under the sheath of me.

Why can’t I hear my own heartbeat

This cacophonously

At any other time than after waking from an accidental nap

On the couch?

There is always this panic tied up in the chords of my voice

And a waking sleepful dream

Still caught in my chest,

On my chest like that creepy demon in that painting…

And the booming of my bloodstream makes me wish

I could accidentally fall back asleep

Just to escape the sound.

~~~

👽❤

~~~

*** The Nightmare (Henry Fuseli, 1791) ***

Photo credit: Googley Googley Googley Google