Fragrant Poesies (a cavalcade of jarring sentiments, but in verse, sweetie, verse.)

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Red Wine & Tweaking
by Mordantia Bat


I'm quiet inside, withdrawn, distracted by prospects of death.
Not mine.
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
for tongues.
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
my chakras.
Where is the chi?
The chi is me.
Recapture it,
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
we persevere.

Onward, ho.
(thud)



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Humanity Is a Taunting Novel
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,
glossy covers,
and divine type.
I look in the mirror, and see
the pensive.
I wait to laugh.
But I've forgotten what's funny.

Besides all of it, that is.



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The Mænad
by Mordantia Bat

Hearts enclenched, Azteclike,
holding Baudelarian verses
in arms outstretched.
What was Charles so afraid of?
This? Me?

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
threefold,
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.





To learn more about the author, Mordantia Bat, please check her Bio on the Editors Page.