Golgari

Glistening Golgari
Wet from the vat,
The birthing fluid in her lungs,
The cloying grave-scent heavy,
Juddering, gasping breath.

Gluttonous Golgari,
Gorging on death.
Scrabbling in the fungus,
and feasting on the fallen.
Consume your ill-fated fill.

Glorious Golgari.
Spawning forth multitudes upon multitudes,
that swarm across the globe.
Queen of the world,
and every one a life.

Gone is old Golgari,
ouroboros fulfilled.
Her circle closes on her,
the brood will stand attentive,
and feed upon her passing.

Glistening Golgari-spawn,
March forth unto the vat,
The fluid pours upon them
and they are torn asunder,
birthing her anew.

Mutable

I am mutable,
That's irrefutable.
I'm a million souls in a single skin,
And I can slough the skin I'm in,
Because I am transmutable.

I am insatiable,
And you're palatable.
I'll swallow you whole at the end of days,
If you can't make me mend my ways,
For I am inescapable.

I am rapacious,
and quite voracious.
I'll burn things for the hell of it,
And smear the wasted earth with shit,
But it won't be audacious.

I am ascendant.
And I'm resplendent.
I shed my skin, I ate you whole,
And from the earth I softly stole,
And I am unrepentant.

Poly Wants a Cracker

I apologize for the terrible pun in the title. I am truly, truly sorry. I've never been good at titles.

Alright. Because I haven't done a spoken word stream-of-thought thing that wasn't autobiographical in a while, and because I'm drowning on prose and poetry and trying to make words pretty, I think that the time has come to just word vomit how I'm feeling about a subject in a blog post like the old days. Also, Lyko said she missed it, and I'm a slave to public opinion, apparently. Whelp, let's see what we've got.

Skin to skin, mouth to mouth, there's no equality even cloaked in somebody else's flesh.

Ah yes, polyamory, sex, and identity. Because I, like most teenagers (still one of those, thank you) I am obsessed with sex and my sexual identity, and over the past few months that's been shaken up rather a lot. So. Spoiler warning: some of these musings might get a little personal, in the 'too much information' way. So be it. I'd like to look back on this in a year and know where I was at.

So, we press onwards, is it? Onwards to the finish. Whatever happens, pray that it isn't a tie. 


I suppose I'm starting to question myself kind of a lot. You can see - I can see - that from a lot of my old blog posts I think I had my heart set on having that spark moment, that finding of another human being to dull the craving in my flesh and bone, to set me down on my feet and hold me to the ground so that I didn't float away on a cloud of my own self-absorption and hubris - you know, a boyfriend, somebody more than a one-off lover and less than a husband, somebody to settle down with and be happy forever and whatever it is that teenagers decide that they deserve, that everybody deserves.

Even the tenderest embrace can become a choking snare if you wind it around your neck and demand pressure. 


And while we're on the subject of teenage misconceptions - for misconception that was - when did I decide that I was a top, and nothing more? When did I decide that despite my frequent sexual fantasies to the contrary that my body was only capable of performing one sexual role and one sexual role only? At what point did I convince myself that I would always take by giving, never give by taking? That is - was - how I saw it, though. And as it turns out I was woefully, woefully wrong.

There's a certain pleasure in letting something go. Your body, your free will, your doubts and fears...your property.


Now? Well, everything has been turned upside down, really. I got a boyfriend, was with him for nine months. That stopped working, and in a lot of ways had never worked to begin with. I don't want a boyfriend - the desire for that magical moment, that grounding certainty that here is the boy who will come along and fix me, that desire for eternal happiness is entirely faded, along with whatever other stupid notions of the ease of true monogamous love I harboured. I loved Pat as purely and wonderfully and powerfully as I had the capacity to feel - and yet it wasn't enough for me. I started to suspect that I was incompatible with monogamy.

Now what? You turn where, exactly, when things fall down? Perhaps you shouldn't turn anywhere.


So, I did what any sensible person would do when wrestling with questions of desire and sexual identity. I decided to fuck with myself - no pun intended. Cutting a long story down to the quick, I built up to and then experienced bottoming. It completely revolutionized my concepts of sex and sexuality and I realized that my habit of referring to myself as a top had sabotaged me in a huge way. I started to wonder. What if behaving monogamously, because that's what I expected of myself and others, was actually a huge mistake? What if I was polyamorous or polygamous? What if being gay entirely was just an adherence to a label? What if I could enjoy sleeping with girls, but by sticking to my gay label, I had deprived myself of a sexual opportunity?

Why not have two? Or three? Or him AND her? What if there's enough fire in you to warm them all? What if there's enough fuel in them to keep you going? What if?


I still haven't answered these questions. I don't know how much of a hedonist I am. I poison myself with booze and smokes and pot, I stay up all night and self-gratify in every sense of the words, I am a lech and a voyeur and an enabler and I'm loving every single second of it...but I'm not so sure about my body. It's an old enemy of mine, and I'm just now discovering exciting and novel ways to use it for pleasure and happiness - but too much too soon could be disastrous. But I think it is safe to say that that illusion of the perfect man to come into my life and sweep me off my feet has been well and truly replaced.

I'll meet him in a coffee shop, and we'll talk about theatre and play footsies under the table. Then I'll go home, and have lunch with somebody else, and we'll discuss roleplaying or fantasy or video games or something, because that's what I love about him, but then he'll have to leave so I can fuck the brains out of somebody else, because that's what I felt like doing. Drifting through life and leaving nothing but happiness in my wake. It's a nice dream. I hope I can make it real. There are people out there who can make it real.


I suppose the only thing I can do is keep going as I am. Don't listen to the people who tell you that what you're doing is wrong or sick or faulty logic, don't listen to that tiny voice in your head that tells you that this is not behaviour your mother would approve of, don't stop on account of weakness or self-doubt or even common sense. Just keep doing what feels right and searching for other things that feel right. What more can I do? What more can anybody do? So I'll write my essays and play my roleplaying games and on occasion I'll take my clothes off, and perhaps now I'll be freer about who I do that with.

Perhaps the time has come to start falling in love. You've had a bit of practice now.


I'm really quite happy, though. That's the important thing.

Malkavian

The beast beats feet,
And walks the street.
Prowling up and down the lanes,
and pouring like fog down the drains.
Sure, we're broken in its wake,
And there's this thirst that we can't slake,
But we shimmer and shine like jewels,
the fragments of shattered rules.
Inspiration strikes like sheet lightning,
cutting brightness, rather frightning -
We are gifted, we are seers,
But none of you have any ears.
So suffer pranks as we suffer fools,
the fragments of the shattered rules,
the scions of the broken dream,
where once we walked, we're now unseen.
Under the glare of hearty sun,
We fade to dust, and then we're done.
Again to rise and walk with tread
of beasts residing in your head.

Panic

Panic.
Sheer, bloody-minded panic.
One can only hope.

Can't Breathe

I can't breathe properly.

Little sections of life,

drawn into my body,

and drawn out as life,

that's been purified.

I can't breathe properly.

Is it fair that my creator lied?

On the blueprints for my body.

I was never meant to sustain

all of this life

that's been purified.

But I was drawn out

into little sections,

that can't breathe properly.

I would have liked to have seen

those blueprints

on the silver screen

projected on the womb-walls,

I would have been proud,

before this fall.

But I can't breathe properly.

Little lines of fire,

inside my lungs.

Machinery has tired,

the flesh is young,

but the wires that hold it

have come undone.

I can't breathe properly.

Little sections of life.

Drawn into my body,

that I do nothing with.

And god, does it hurt.

Refine

Refined,

sifted down,

to the very dust that built you up.

Defined,

all you are,

by the colour and the taste.

Maligned,

this is true,

in the public press of passing thought.

Refined,

sifted down,

to the coal-black dust

you are.