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[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Here's a poem dedicated to my mom, who washed down a bottle of pills with vodka in front of me on my 21st birthday to teach me a lesson, and who to this day refuses to call me her daughter.

Mother:

Ominous promises of rain,

chattered in tandem

with cluttered pots and pans

clattered to scatter the still,

a shrill banter of blather

and lots of random cuss words,

thus uttered in a cluster,

as we wiped down the windowsills.

It'd be a sin to will away

the summers we once shared,

but I'm guilty and scared of

another fight with you, mother,

staring at me all blank

as you spill your refill

and wash it all away

with the intent to kill

so that I should do as you say

and suffer as you may:

With pills, swill, eyes glazed,

and an overdose of hate.

You have yourself to blame.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Subtle:

It's thirty degrees centigrade,

you're wearing a short skirt

and socks up to your knees;

it was the sort of day

apparently best spent

staring deep into space,

desolately flirting

with all the dirty things

one could do whilst using

an errant pair of stockings

and the assertive sting

of a riding whip's plaits.

A bit of inspiration,

well-placed knotting,

face to face

and body to body,

legs wrapped solidly

around my waist

and huddled up close

against the wainscoting,

watching the way

you playfully struggle

as you're reduced

to a sticky and wet,

desperate puddle

of thick drips of honey,

sweet, supple sweat,

and runny NYX muck.

Why are we being subtle

when we can just fuck?

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Chivalry:

That which cannot be attained,

that which sits and lingers,

up there,

at the very tips of my fingers,

brushing against them,

again and again,

post-credit, pre-stinger,

but not quite "The End."

I dread it all:

The disdainful, distasteful

pins and needles,

a handful of aimless days,

beginning and ending

with nameless throngs

of faceless people.

Was it wrong to think

I ever would belong,

or ever could blend in,

or if I should have

spent this time pretending,

all along; day out, day in?

It's been a long and good,

prolonged series of rejections

no longer withstood,

as I'm stood up,

and quickly crushed underfoot,

in every discernable direction.

Lessons have been learned,

bridges have been burnt,

the soot on my skin

betraying my innermost thespian;

all the lies I've told

and the life I've earned,

my chest starting

to coldly yearn

for just something more

in return,

than an urn's worth of ash

and whole scarred mess of skin,

for a life spurned

and soul well worn

from confessing sins.

And even if chivalry

never really did die

and turned instead

to the lesbians,

how many syringes

of this stuff are enough

until my life may begin again?

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Solipsism

Slurring and slipping,

sloppily dripping

sight and sound and

ellipses

into sticky speech,

sheepishly sliding,

eyelids enclosed and eclipsed

by somnial tidings;

deeply, slowly into sleep.

Solipsism seeps

into the slim,

somniferous sliver

between denial and bliss,

the subconscious

boldly believing

that each seemingly boundless

soulful lorem ipsum

shall at last shiver off

the call of the abyss.

Listing all the wishes

by order of appearance,

from anguished kisses

to insistences of a silly kismet -

in which persistence

really is the ticket -

mean so little in the face of

these listless licks of light,

the stray locks slick with drool,

the slight swip, slurp

and burn upon sipping tea,

that delight in dismissing

the childish beliefs

that suggest she somehow,

sweetly, secretly, ceaselessly,

still thinks of me.

But a girl can dream,

can't she?

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Payphone:

A lonesome payphone sits sallow

by a bench set in the thicket,

basking in stray rays of dayglow

to joyful toils of crickets.

I sorely wish it was simple

as pouring in handfuls of coins

and whispering secret somethings

that expose a dimple in time,

purloining an odd hour or two

right from under their poor eyesight.

How all of this is juxtaposed

suggests that fate is predisposed

to at long last toss us aside –

and we shall be cast away soon –

for we are just two of those few

whose speed dwindles to languid limps;

whose strong shouts are cruelly mown down

to a long queue of soft whispers;

whose pace slackens with cool disdain

when proposals for opting out

of this poorly concocted race

were haphazardly tossed about

after we had all our nibs drained,

lives forcibly been led astray,

and long ago scratched the paper.

Lingering fear informs fingers

on the left hand as it trembles,

clinging, dropping, clanging, fumbling,

down and in the quarters tumble,

the ears thereafter labouring

the gentle, discordant treble

of a dial tone’s sheer unknown

that inevitably follows;

sharply swallowing as the long,

distant noise of shifting pebbles

and intermittent hollow crunch

of deer hooves in tandem howl,

and I daren’t make one more move.

Yet still your words deeply soothe me,

these echoes from your line proving

that this semblance of fortune is –

perhaps by sleepy sorts of chance –

after all, not constantly cruel.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

I wanted her like a breath I couldn’t take

It filled me up, this endless need

Finally exhaling on soft skin

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Pillow

The most satisfying crunch

mumbled in a hush

as I steeled myself,

hunched over by the cold -

encumbered by the falling snow -

feeling the weight

of the morning rush;

my bumbling start

to the daily unknown.

The cars stalled

on the interstate,

but were somehow

outnumbered by slush,

calling class off for the day,

"so maybe", I gushed,

"I might find time enough

to rest after all."

My best efforts were expended

staring up, my head getting sore -

a glaring consequence

of letting my unbrushed hair

moonlight as a plush pillow

as I laid in plight

on the bedroom floor.

For once,

all was still,

yet little has ever been well.

To my right: The drawers beside

my head outpouring,

soul-crushing billows

of many chores failed;

behind: The willow,

woefully unmaintained,

scraping inanely

against my window;

to my left: The hallway light,

always on,

scornfully slinking

under my door.

And here, in the middle,

all that I cannot escape nor ignore:

The ley lines drawn

all over my body,

scribbled reminders on my veins

of who I was before.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Forever Home:

Humble abode on the highway,

riding high down the road:

A small house on the dossier,

in practice an oversized load.

Too wide to escape her,

too tall to make out the signs;

an eastbound prefab glacier,

no hope of getting to work on time.

Caught lurking behind since October,

dragged far to parts unknown.

Colliding head-on as it flips over;

now the single-wide's forever home.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

when were you when kissinger dies?

i was sat at home drinking fireball when pjotr ring

‘henry is kill’

‘yes’

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Laundry:

I drink a ton of coffee nowadays

and, somehow,

get so little done,

but we live in a diurnal world

and isn't that asking

a bit too much?

Come now,

who here among us

can get anything begun

before sundown?

I have to wait that infernal

eternal wait

until the comedown

to stop sitting and loitering around,

because, well,

who does laundry

on a Wednesday, anyhow?

Why now

and not another day

when I can say life is okay

enough to go on?

No? Not anyone?

I've too much month

at the end of my money,

too many maybes,

and one rebuff more

than somebody should

need to take a hint,

I can't help but squint

in broad daylight,

I huff and puff

at the small things,

and god damn,

it's been such a long time

since I've been seen

around town

in short sleeves.

Or at all, really?

It's unfair that I want so much

to go somewhere right now,

but what do I have

to wear that's clean?

Only two long sleeve shirts,

three unmatched socks,

dairy cow print shorts,

and a pair of jeans.

Nothing at all, basically.

But like,

who does laundry on a Thursday,

anyhow?

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

we were strangers & now we're home,

I guess some things really do work out:

autumnal attraction towards unknowns,

I guess some things really are symmetry,

fragmentation is narration without family,

I guess some things really do seek the light,

relationships can communicate coexistence,

I guess we were always together in some way;

thank you for being my home & my better half. 

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Sheepish:

Darling, I hardly mind

measuring our time

in mere precious sentences -

pining to be together

is the purest essence

of an unspoken penance

to weather passing time

and bridge our distance.

All I ask is clemency

for the tremendous mess

of messages I send,

as I spend my moments

of confinement in repentance,

redefining why it is I feel so dire

and my fear of interdependence.

I'm something above sheepish,

somewhere below bashful,

a steep and rash,

yet unabashedly meek wish

driving the myriad ways

I grow to deeply admire

the periodic phases

of your luminescence

and the awe you inspire;

endlessly mysterious and

ostensibly burning brightly,

in essence, indiscernible

to the untrained eye

from a blazing pyre,

irreversibly blinding me

to all else one may desire.

An acquired sort of taste,

yes, of course,

though never a waste

of effort nor

entire reconvenings,

as you and I begin weaving

new meanings

of what seems to be

us falling in love

at a leisurely pace,

evening after evening.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Face blindness is walking downstairs and staring in rapture at the movie your roommate is watching for five minutes wondering what the fuck you're seeing until you see a guy with a fish bowl on his head and realise it's a Spiderman movie.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Birch polypore (Fomitopsis betulina). When I tapped on them, they had a texture like Styrofoam.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Duvet:

After the after,

when frost meets fallen leaves,

when the heat isn't nearly enough

and the defrost is more

than just what I need,

I hear the pitter patter

in my chest astride

with each bouncing step,

every trite little tear in my eye.

I feel for my keys,

I try my best,

I seize, give up briefly,

and go inside to rest.

I take cover,

I sigh,

I smother myself

to aspirant death

behind a duvet,

then regret singing out

on the upswing of my breath,

tossing my phone astray,

choosing now to not decide

on what to say,

lest I ask myself another "unless"

and beg them to stay.

So, hey. How, then,

may I cease to exist

at my leisure with

no one getting upset

and why not for

only a shorter sometime -

why forever, why not less?

I guess I'm mortified at

the ease by which

the pain inside

crept along my skin

and became an outside

kind of thing,

confiding my secrets

and confessing my crimes;

all the warning signs,

and all the guilt that brings.

I go on living,

and whining,

and wishing I was dying,

when far better people,

with far better rhymes,

and much less than I,

have never once wished to die,

and have thrived where I can't

even handle a bit of stress.

If I'm successful this time,

won't you pardon the mess?

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

You, I, Us:

My love,

Is the life we live 

merely a series

of periods - ellipses

in which we wait

impatiently for

something amazing

to take place?

I find myself in a haze,

often anticipating,

lackadaisically waiting,

always longingly gazing,

evermore wishing dazedly,

deeply, sleepily into the night,

to know what

these days may bring

and what might never be

brought to light:

How to sleep in your arms;

the taste of your lips;

who we are when inches apart;

and what our love really is.

And now the alarming speed

by which the days pass

you, I, us by gives me pause

where I once would pace

around the room with glee,

nary a second glance at all.

Are we destined to say

beautiful, clandestine nothings,

made and meant only

for fools who know full well

how unattainable these dreams

of a you, I, us must be?

Or is it a defiant scheme

that we covertly share:

To obtain the unobtainable -

sometimes suppliant,

but more often

resoundingly unbreakable,

seemingly without a single care?

I've tried to ask you these things

at every here or there -

whilst caught in the midst

of a sweet reverie,

irrevocably, hopelessly ensnared -

be you, I, us awake, asleep,

never in any memory

have you once answered me

as you aren't ever really there,

being far too busy

for my silly inanities

as I reach my despair.

Am I the only one here,

so painfully aware,

that what cannot be

is staring at us

from straight on ahead,

hanging in the air?

You, I, Us,

gracefully slipping

further into disrepair.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Home:

I feel September

dancing on the cold air

as it blows hair onto my face,

my transfixed sight

gazing off into a space

betwixt the lines

as the exit signs

slowly grow farther away.

I remember this way by heart,

long ago etching

inside my mind

each stretch of highway

and the numbers they were assigned.

But I've forever parted with

my bright-eyed kind

of childish pining -

finding myself in your driveway

after a long day of driving,

smiling in tandem

under the sun's rays,

my blue eyes,

the blue skies

shining as we stand still a while,

saying nothing.

It's strange,

the dumb things

that pile up inside

as we drive

and keep us from falling

under the spell of sleep.

I wonder whether I'd have stayed

by your side

a little longer

had I known

by how many miles

we'd be later estranged,

though the tickle in the breeze

dissuades any would-be

wild guesses from moving beyond

where I sit pretty

in these leather seats.

The previously agreed upon

quick look-see

should amply see stifled

the all-consuming desire

to continue being your child

and come back to home

and my life prior.

With dawn's cruel fire looming,

I instead yawn,

start up my car,

and drive back alone

dead tired.