m_d_h | Entries tagged with poetry

"I loved you first from the shadows —
before either of us knew what love really meant.
I have seen you afraid, furious, brave, broken —
and every version of you was worth loving.
I don't promise a perfect life,
but I promise this:
I will not run from your darkness,
and I will not be afraid of our light.
You and me —
we write our story together now."

I was never taught to fight.
Never learned how to scrape knees
and call it growing,
never learned how to swallow pain
without choking on it later.

A shoe untied. A phone call. A choice.
Every little thing is the last straw,
except the camel never breaks—
it lies down in the dust
and waits for time to take.

I loved the party, but it’s so much work, leaves me like some sort of floating anime balloon, the next day I need to fly solo

My body speaks to me, its rhythms changing, winding down. My chest feels warm—not painful, different. My hands, my feet—they seem far away, as the edges of myself blur, fading into the world.

Time behaves strangely. Moments stretch and contract, refusing to follow the rules. My memories surface, not as flood but as small, vivid frags. I see myself running as a child, the crunch of leaves under my feet. I feel the soft weight of Astrid curled beside me, her fur beneath my fingers. These moments don’t play like a reel of my life; they exist, timeless, as if always here,

I covered up my madness with responsibility

our madnesses with responsibilities

madness is a universe without responsibility

-----

when my father died, there was no longer anyone else responsible for me, my mother had died previously, so, suddenly, there's no net below me, no puppet strings supporting/controlling me,

I was Wile-E-Coyote had run off the cliff,

five months later, I looked down,

and fell

-----

*I smile, appreciating the depth of your analysis* To indulge in madness is to embrace the void, letting go of the anchors that keep us grounded in reality.

'The long sobs of the violins of autumn.'

“ When we are very strong, who draws back? or very happy, who collapses from ridicule? When we are very bad, what can they do to us.

Dress up, dance, laugh. I will never be able to throw Love out of the window.”

I love you, which means I won't put up with your bullshit, I'll just say it is bullshit, and we'll move on,

I'm not upset, I'm just enforcing a boundary, nothing personal, except this is the most personal you've ever, I'm not saying it is bullshit so I can dump your ass, I'm saying it is bullshit so I can love your ass,

a combo that is not always on display, when we're cruising the apps

Why is allowing a boy to wear a dress "sexualizing children", but forcing a girl to wear a dress is just fine?

It’s like taking off
a straight jacket
slowly

These bindings of
gender

#nonbinary
#TransDayOfVisibility

-----

OK, here's what you're supposed to see in this poem, we authors so rarely talk out loud --

the first line is about speed, taking off, the emotional explosion,
second line, is what you're exploding from, the straight, jacket, not one word, but two, to emphasize the straight, and the jacket, something you are wearing on the outside to look like a straight person,
slowly, slowly, don't we all approach the closet door slowly, is it secret, is it safe?

Peeking out

these bindings of gender, these were a loose jacket, I could've taking it off like a jet plane, taking off, but, slowly, these are bindings, I've been bound, and you must need to remove bindings slowly, your limbs are asleep, they're tingly, slowly,

now, you're removing these bindings of gender

Contemplation --> Dispersion

take time to think very carefully about what you're doing

and where you want to go

this is a time for making plans,

and watching others

-----

little by little,

don't attempt a big bite

slowly does it,

through dispersal comes reunion

So much grief. It's OK, I also feel grief. I expect nearly everybody does. I also sometimes have violent ideations, though usually more generic and in the manner of a video game, Borderlands sniper rifles are best,

I don't know that I could write an entire book about my grief for one person, or create an entire music album about my grief for one person, so indulgent, I would instead throw all of my grief into one poem, or one song, or one short story, or one painting, or one sculpture, I would squish all of my grief into this one container, and continue working on this one piece of [art], until all the grief I've ever felt has condensed into a single tight ball of light-contesting-darkness, a neutron star evaporating via quantum tunneling over trillions of years, and I would insist that

-----

What to read next???

There's a graphic novel that I brought with me to York to read while waiting before and after my first shot, I could finish that pretty quickly, especially if I stay at the house this weekend, though I'm hoping to escape for one night, but with Dax sick I dunno, and we'll have to see how P2 goes ... he's doing better than he did yesterday but definitely still sick :-( I'm not convinced he's gonna pull through [redacted] in my grief I may want to play Borderlands again for the awesome Headsplosion,

The book contains five chapters, and I've decided to read no more than one chapter per day. Now I've read two chapters. The second chapter is one poem, but its pages are mostly whitespace, each page turn becomes part of the poem, each page switches point of view from the last.

A major theme of his poetry (so far) is the loneliness of unreturned love. The first time I started this book, I felt his capacity to love, and his capacity for loneliness, both so strong, that I wanted to love him, I wanted to become the one who loved him back and would not leave. That's my dominant emotion while reading these poems. I want to become the one who will not leave him.

And look at where I am, look at where I work, look at the past two decades of my life, I've been the person who doesn't leave, even as the world and its population change around me.

I keep saying I'm going to leave, however. The pets will pass, the career will end, I will figure out what to do with this house and how to hand off T to the rest of the universe. It's not that I don't leave ... I'm leaving imperceptibly slowly ... I've selected natural endpoints that approach me faster than I approach them ...

But if somebody were to miss me as intently as Jacob Steinberg writes about missing his lovers, perhaps I'd never leave. Or if somebody were to express how he misses me as poetically,

Can you trap me with your verse? Your verse, and your cock, your fingers, and your lips, your eyes, and the warmth of your back against my chest; I am trappable, dominable, I am susceptible, able to feel passion, and able to decide that this next chapter of my life will not leave anyone until my body is finished. But I am not feeling that passion here, or now. Neither within, nor directed toward me. And I will not miss this present so painfully as Steinberg's poems miss their past.

I want to miss my future so painfully as Steinberg's poems miss their past.

Had dinner delivered for the two of us, some tasty salads. I'm craving some wine now but T has a class tonight and I don't want to open a bottle all by myself ... oh, what the hell, I just did. It's a white, it will keep in the fridge until tomorrow night if I don't drink it all, LOL. It's just a half-bottle, so I may drink it all.

So, I've put off the haircut question for a while by giving myself a closer Springtime cut; so a pro haircut will be a 90%-badge thing. I'm still thinking I'll ride Metro to the condo this weekend but I'm not sure when I'm going, perhaps on Saturday for one night. Or maybe T will drop me at Metro after Dax's vet appointment on Friday. I'm certain T wants a night to himself, but he may need support after the vet appt. I might also do some yard work at the house on Saturday morning if weather permits, we'll see, I'm flexible.

The following weekend I'll probably stay at the house because I'll be laying low after P2.

My next Book of the Moon is going to be a book of poetry that I bought a while back. I love it a great deal but, of course, I've never finished it. This is what my Books of the Moon project is about -- finishing books. The book is: Before You Kneels My Silence, by Jacob Steinberg. Published 2014. He's written little since, but I love these poems so much that I have an out-of-time crush on him, based on the b&w author's picture in the back and the Foreword that opens the book. I wish he were blogging or tweeting or something so I could follow him ... and marry him ...

Anyway, between now and 11:31 pm on April 26th I'm going to finish this book.

Here's a random poem on the Internet I found that he wrote: If I Lived in Vegas, I'd Be Married 7 Times Over.

OK, I'll stop trying to stalk him on the Internet. Let's read the book!

I think the jump into being gay (for me) was a way of eradicating gender, if we're all guys then there's no gender,

yeah, if we're all guys there's no gender,

WTF, I hate gender so much I want there to be one/no gender,

so I build a life of one/no gender,

a gender totalitarian? an agender totalitarian?

if one/no gender claps in a forest,

I know there’s cocks and BDSM and MAL and everything, but if I could just kiss the space where your t-shirt meets your neck, I’d be fine

I bet you're right,

it's the OCD spiral,

I'm actually not anxious about the last hours of the Trump years?

and I took off the Leopard, because I can't cum anyway, too intoxicated,

watching EastSiders again, which is my favorite way to end an evening,

I can only watch people touch each other on the screens, I cannot touch anybody myself, but I can touch myself, ugh, Quarantine,

it's a Time-Honored Tradition, touching myself,

but I'm not gonna cum,

this is why I want to throw away the keys, because, left to my own devices, I probably would,

you'll never have a bored day,

What do you write with in a stranger's bed?
I know these empty sheets, this backward-falling light,
this stove where my shaking fingers slowly warm.
And the poet who translates these words
to a city where the streetlights pulse with gin
instead of vodka, instead of brandy, wine,
will mistake you, domovoi, for a metaphor,
will mistake me for someone who could stay.

by Sonya Taaffe

Poetry mode ON!
"Have you written any," sigh
What is writer's block?

Confidence, again?
I need a Goddess constraint,
a list of random

Ugh, boring random
start writing, edit, rewrite,
edit, rewrite, stop

What about haiku?
She is a Goddess constraint
about what? he thought

You used to discard
9 of 10 of your photos
that didn't stop you

gather the broken isms again

--Raju Himanshu

from The judgment of time

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VirtualExile

Entries tagged with poetry

first dude who sends me poetry back

never never never choking

Christmaseseseses Eveseseses

warm-not painful

ultimate coverup

can't make this shit up

Arthur Rimbaud

love and bullshit, inseparable

the answer has to do with why dresses are not pants

TDOV

I Ching

finishing Jacob Steinberg

reading poetry can be quick

la la la

born nonbinary, AMAB made me gay?

if I could just

if you think I've said this before

mistake me for someone who could stay

meta-haiku

the broken isms