I'm quiet inside, withdrawn, distracted by prospects of death.
Wondering at things.
Yearning for someone I shouldn't be. But what the hell.
Haven't gotten a poem outta him yet. Will.
It will come, like a tornado, overtaking all sense and
I'll quietly wish to talk about his eyes.
Nothing matters but my heart, which is copacetic.
Beatnik chick, I could write bad poetry,
but I'm waiting for better sensibilities to overtake me.
Real sense would be nice.
Sun needs eggs.
Grocery lists. Why?
I am over the deep. How could
Dorothy Parker drink soda water
at the Algonquin
and bottles of wine at night?
I am replete, unnecessary.
I speak in tongues. I yearn
All of life is peculiar.
I feel exhausted and am
considering dropping in a heap,
but perseverance is the key word
these days. I am
screaming into the void, lying under
Where is the chi?
The chi is me.
get it at the shopping mall.
Why does every generation
think theirs is the last?
Dismalness isn't an end, it's a
beginning. That's why
by Mordantia Bat
I know about the rain.
the way it mists on the windows,
obscuring the view.
What is there to see anyway?
I used to have a sense of humor.
Now, I ponder.
Pensively, I consider.
I must "forgive myself for being human."
I got that from Robertson Davies,
not from some pamphlet.
I trust novels more.
They don't trust me.
Why should they?
I can't even forgive myself,
why should they?
They mock with their pages
and ordered page numbers,
and divine type.
I look in the mirror, and see
I wait to laugh.
But I've forgotten what's funny.
Besides all of it, that is.
by Mordantia Bat
Hearts enclenched, Azteclike,
holding Baudelarian verses
in arms outstretched.
What was Charles so afraid of?
I rip the verses through delirious teeth,
scatter them poetically into the bay.
Wolves bay, I bay, I'm a dog the boys said
when I was twelve. Evil isn't innate;
it is simply learned at a teacher's knee,
or better yet, under a teacher's foot.
The damage a mænad can do is
like everything important. The trinity,
which has nothing to do with jesus and the
goddettes, but you know that old trinity of the phallus and
some dude's balls. Ya got balls, I got balls,
I'm a mænad.
It's in the tricks of the trade.
to juggle them on stage with a tome by Freud
just like a man might juggle fire.
This isn't a diatribe of hate, mind you--
more it is of mirth.
It is, merely, the ballad of the mænad.
Comrade. Bolshevik. Stolichanaya.
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