probablynottheworsttranspoet

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Water

Walking to therapy 

on a Friday morning 

and nothing is open, 

despite all the willful thinking, 

the dreaming, 

the witless hoping 

of a place to unwind and dine 

before facing what's left me 

so depressed and broken. 

You'd think they'd have 

best tried and built this town 

with snow and slush in mind 

but nothing can really 

make this place less unkind 

on any unwitting witnessing eye.

The water looks so uninviting 

as ice floats on and by,

the river at best unimpressed

by our trivial human lives. 

Deceptively planted hours above 

that there Mason-Dixon line, 

we have ourselves a dour haven 

for the racist dime-a-dozen,

for those who so wish to thrive

on the back of nepotist ambition,

deprive, and stay frozen in time.

Faceless landlords drive 

the unhoused to early death, 

cravenly hiding as they stave in 

the fiction of an American dream 

for them, I, and all the rest.

The water looks so uninviting 

as our hopes quickly race under 

for the stream to slowly ingest. 

And I guess I still miss her; 

she'd broken up with me 

months ago over text. 

But I was sure,

but I was smitten, 

that this time dumb emotions,

trauma bonding, oxytocin,

and rhythmic mashings of flesh

could prevail past enmeshment.

But hearts are frail, 

she was out for fun, 

and I failed to be enough,

if much could be said

and anything could be done. 

I look down, I look up, I look dead,

I trace my fingers against the rail - 

a frozen, frigid, numb kinda feel - 

as I gaze again over the edge; 

the water looks so uninviting 

in the background of this 

snow dredged steel ledge. 

I've been wedged here a while, 

little over six years, 

I've tried and failed to start a life,

to secure a domicile, 

to have a full-fledged career.  

But I make less than volunteers,

rent is too high, beer is cheaper, 

and no one will love or hire

or even sleep near

a suicidal, fuck-up Queer

unable to afford to become a real girl,

and all the required procedures. 

The water looks so inviting.

Oh, to feel the current swirl;

I've grown so eager.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Just:

Thoughts of otherwise,

when our wayward eyes

could someday meet,

caught directly at the

correct place and time

with our respective

iced coffee treats.

An awfully close connection,

enticing as it shall be,

will lie at the junction

of my right palm

styled completely flat

across your left cheek.

Blood like toffee rising up,

rushing, congealing

discretely under the skin,

thus flushing rosily in streaks,

to complement sweetly

your cosmetic grin.

Speaking our sinful ambitions

in a low, dinful hush,

attempts to at once forgo

that kinetic condition

of all things known -

antique and love alike -

to crumble and rust

whence all prophetically tumbles,

into the jumbled up dust.

A just world, perhaps,

where we'd have our chance

beyond this pathetic scheme;

a sensible place, perchance,

where "Us" won't just be

a theoretical, poetic dream.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

Fate:

With a mutter, I wonder:

Just how long, then,

has that building stood there?

Stoic among the urban clutter,

it stares solemnly

whilst utterly alone,

with cupreous gildings

of green coloured tarnish aloft,

decrepit, dichroic

columns across, and -

at the bottom -

a dusting of disrepair.

Nobody much cares

that this swatch

of modern Sodom

is scarred by cacophony,

and, as far as I'm aware,

they're fine to stand by

and watch idly,

for the monotony of decay

rarely spares

even our most prepared.

Perhaps we best despair

not the prophecy,

but being among

those unlucky few

fate chooses to spare.

[probablynottheworsttranspoet]

So, I write in cycles of 23 poems, and each cycle is tethered by a loose theme. The current one is about nostalgia and regret. My previous poem is also in this theme, but we're here for the new one, aren't we? So, here's a poem about cloud gazing.

Ambrosia salad days:

Overhead is draped a beige sheet,

steeped in ruby grapefruit shine,

scratched along with blue crayon,

laid on its cylindrical side -

blue number one,

to be perfectly precise.

So many rorschach blobs,

bits, and bobs to choose from,

as far as we have sight -

they could be a wispy dumpling

or even a juicy rain-filled jelly,

loosely suspended up in the sky;

gushy or mushy splendor,

'pending on the one you want

any flimsy, silly, whimsy excuse to try.

Oh, they wane,

the ambrosia salad days

of my youth,

savory, sticky, sweet,

and so easy to lose.

My lips are stained still,

my teeth freshly abused,

but the treat's taste lingers,

unable to be reproduced.

[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.