Hello, again! Welcome to the amalgamated delusions of creative writings that is my mind. Here, you will find written works (primarily poetry) that are currently unpublished.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
First and foremost, I am a poet; secondly, I am a woman who deals with chronic pain---a type of suffering that impedes everyday life, romantic affairs, and even personal-womanly endeavours. My poetry expresses my frustrations, my desires---hell, even my fears---and amalgamates these concepts and idiosyncrasies into a fleshy cradle of blistering rage. When it comes to literary rebellion, I relish the opportunity to speak for the women who suffer in silence; those souls who feel abandoned, let down by the system, incapable of love---I am only one voice of many, but I want to bring these personal struggles and stigmatic facets of womanhood to life. Poetry is a form of rebellion; you just have to break through the preconceived notion of the art form, and curate your words to that distinctive voice in your head---the one that tells you that you're worthless, unloved, and a lost cause. Rebel. Write poetry. Rebel with your poetry. Slice through these societal norms and show the world that you are fierce and refuse to give up hope. I am a poet, and I am a woman; I am here to show the world that I have not given up.
An Unnamed Poem for an Unnamed Girl
She does not belong here. Ashen falls of revered muliebrity; I can only imagine her nose butting against my clavicle. Jackboots fit even the leanest of women—a lush brooch depicting chaos and order; as above, so below is the female gaze. This century does not welcome her. The countenance of half-wit dreams; but she conspires with secular deities—for she is suffocated in the recherché embers of an abandoned sconce. Her kiss would melt like candle-wax from a slow-setting sun; her gaze, fixed on the sole sanction of my palpitating lesions. To be held by her is to feel coddled by Trismegistus’ Moon.
Perforations skulk in her laughter, and I breathe into those orifices—grafting my hesitation to her reluctance. A chiselled Chess board, locked in a stale-mate; stolen kisses for the flinch of a pawn. She comes to me some nights, clad in ivory chainmail and greying eyes. She is the embodiment of redacted chivalry; a sterile epigraph unto grit and candour. Philately reaches for her visage. Flames sunder for her fingers, for she assumes the silver mask—martyrdom from the ancient odes of Man. Her temple belongs in Marlowe’s scriptures, and her eyes, in Shakespeare’s sonnets. To lie with her is to confer with sullen angels; to weep wax and watch it harden around the heart.
Six centuries tardy; seldom befitting a contemporary monarch.
I watch the snowflakes crystallise against my windowpanes with a newfound reverence; winter has become a season of lust. Is love the predator or prey of snow-fallen girls? Perhaps I would have been her knight; I am merely centuries too late. She probably reads pages of jaundiced verse, longing for a touch I can-not give. A blood-borne affliction; a malady impregnated in her soul. Hymnals of heterosexual sanctions; a sanctum for the misbegotten. But beneath her breastplate, a grim fairy-tale reigns—one of howling winds across pale thighs and scintillating lips betwixt exposed phalanges. She may live in a painted world, fraught with ash and withering roses; and I wish to wade through the ash and pluck those roses to place between her breasts. Like blood to a tissue, her petals are to flesh.
But the longer I dream of her, I can only wonder if she even dreams of knights; perhaps it is a convent she wishes to escape to. And she will find me there—a blighted apothecary in waiting: A woman.
Is This Poem About You?
I WEEP AT YOUR BELT BUCKLE
This poem was birthed from perhaps one of the darkest places—a health anomaly, of sorts—which is my way of shedding light on a condition that many women face (and is not talked about nearly enough as it should be). As someone who has been trying to find answers for 10+ years, my frustrations, anxieties, and helplessness have amalgamated into some form of poetry—and I intended to share this when I felt comfortable enough to speak on this villainous behalf.
The human body is, itself, a radiant abyss of wonders and anomalies, and my condition plays an encumbering role in that subsumption. With this bodily vortex and society’s own orbit of expectations in tow, I have faced many challenges, disappointments, and depressive episodes—but, my passion for writing has been bolstered because of the lack of health(care). In a sense, such vulgar and licentious subject matter have become a part of my authorial voice; as these types of writings are a (very subjective) form of coping, yet I wouldn’t trade it for the world. My writing is the final layer of flesh stripped clean from my body.
Prose and poetry have been the scapegoat of my dark periods (which are quite often), and I believe that in sharing this poem with the world (i.e., the few hundred Followers of mine), I can find a sort of peace and acceptance for my condition.
Keep writing poetry; it may just save you.
Erasure Poem
Derived from
Lisa Robertson's Boat
My professor had us perform a writing exercise this morning—we were to study a poem from Lisa Robertson’s collection of poetry, Boat, to then amalgamate into an erasure poem. We had ten minutes (precisely!) to complete this activity, before ultimately sharing our results with the class. In accompaniment with the time constraint, we were to also set our own parameters—mine not allowing a line to exceed more than three words. I decided to borrow from the poem on Page 79, Face /. You can find my morning-erasure poetry down below.
​
â–‡man’s▇▇▇▇riot▇▇▇▇
▇▇concerned▇▇▇▇▇hands▇▇
All▇▇dark▇▇▇
â–‡can I escape?
▇▇▇trying▇▇
▇▇private▇▇▇▇griefs▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇willed▇▇▇neutrality.
▇▇not loved enough▇▇
What I want▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇what actually happens.
▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇abstraction in▇▇▇▇falling.
▇▇▇▇▇speak to me.
▇▇▇▇▇assonance▇then rhyme.
Had I▇choice▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇systems that▇buckled.
▇▇▇delicate▇▇▇▇goddess▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇of an organ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇phrases▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇of convenience▇▇▇▇▇
I experienced▇▇sensation▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇concerned▇▇▇▇▇hands▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇mobilizes▇▇the body.
▇▇▇sentiment of▇▇▇▇▇correspondence.
▇▇satisfied▇so little.
▇▇pampered▇▇▇▇▇▇my hip▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇soft▇▇▇▇▇▇skin▇▇▇
▇▇only▇▇report.
▇▇Womanliness▇▇and laughs.
▇▇live for▇▇▇▇animals.
All▇▇dark▇▇▇
I can’t▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇speak to me.
▇▇▇my boredom.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇come▇▇for information.
▇▇▇solid▇▇and▇▇certain
▇conceived▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇inhuman love▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇quiet▇▇▇▇culverts▇
▇talking▇▇▇▇▇▇glances.
▇▇▇▇▇
▇subsist▇▇▇
▇desire▇▇▇abridged.
▇using▇▇▇humans▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇
▇confined▇thievery▇▇▇
I▇▇want▇▇partially.
â–‡loosenedâ–‡landscape.
â–‡doubtâ–‡I amâ–‡
▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇I lied.
I▇▇▇▇studied love.
US SCHOOLGIRL DEER.
Professors slaughter little girls like
us. Do you watch the way they recite
eloquent perversion between chalk
tips and cuffed blouses? Our eyes
laugh, and our mouths cry—
we use our pencils to scribble clits,
tits, bits of fidelity, but we have none.
Which do we have?
Our grades are subjective to annular perspectives, and those rings are bands from girls far older than us. He drinks a latte with cream, but we pour honey into our milk; we sip at frosted foam, marks slipping in an overdose of pre—
calculus, yes, why couldn’t we
long for grades like we do our
professor’s tricky thumb?
Your work is like no one else, he says;
I ask him, will you work at me like no one else?
My breasts are only weighted at three
o’clock, but my school bag is dropped by two. I leave a ruler and tacky glue in there, just in case my professor’s tie binds my wrists and snaps; but this never
usually ensues. Instead, the tacky
glue is used on class zines and Friday
afternoon crafts with my mother.
But he asks me to wait in the back office,
weary as his words sputter from academia, four papers in hand circled with a fat, juicy red ZERO. The content did not conform to the woman I should
be, but I am a girl—Henry Miller would
have said so himself.
Write what you know; what do
I know? He straightens his tie
and I see streaks of glue smudged
in the phallic symbols of deer
antlers—and I begin to scribble
again. I would blend into the
lopsided leaves of a folk-horror
production, and that night is
when I ask my professor for
a drive home. I watch a deer
run by, its hooves glued
together as its hind legs
bleed ZEROs,
and it screams out like
a child reciting Nabokov
for the first time, before
our car hits the poor thing.
SHERIDAN COLLEGE
PROGRAM CLOSURE
PREY FOR THE LAMMERGEIER OF MONTMARTRE;
THE MONOTYPIC SUBCONSCIOUS OF THE CONSCIOUS POET
Who knew the spectral silence
of the Lammergeier bodach—
the cerise-slathered latency
of independently dependent
potency of the subconscious,
would have stalked in a shadow
of can-can solicitude?
Gypaetus. I am monotypic.
A genus of monotypical
empathy—the apperception
of my evenings spent on
the velvety chipped steps of
that old café near the vineyard,
yes?
I never fancied Montmartre’s
coltish drags of virtuosic cigarettes.
When my membrane took on
the form of that vulture—redolent
of garishly fantastical beasts
from tales long past, I knew
I wouldn’t deliver myself
to the steps of the Moulin Rouge.
A Tibetan once told me Heaven
existed to cradle the bewitching
transparency of my youth—
but I knew it was just the ossifrage preaching.
This cluster of clipped feathers and
that meddlesome beak fractures my inner
worries; these doubts, those dreadful
mornings of berating and self-pity. Or
was it falsified? The pity.
Was the suffering falsified? The sorrow,
and all that regret?
Perhaps.
But the
Lammergeier wouldn’t hesitate to kill
its prey. A tactful freefall. The delving
o f t h e m i n d.
Yet, being the prey to the predatory lariat
of the subconscious, is a nest in which my
tongue will not tangle in its neurotic twine—
for the Accipitridae has hooked its roots
into talons, and clawed its diurnal belligerence
deep beneath the subliminal mound of my deathly
humanistic id. As the preyed-upon bones splinter
into ghostly tinsel, the plummeting of my superego
sputters into congealed confetti of sanguine serenity.
Unable to burrow into lesser thoughts
of repentance or conceal my guilt
from the flitting swabs of the Lammergeier,
the rodent in place of my heart has exiled itself—
and I know Paris, never threatened,
wouldn’t welcome my dense elegy and sarcastic
ode to the vibrant scoliosis of Avenue Junot;
subsequent to the tumultuous
and marvellously grafted mess of my mind—
wind-up! Porcelain dolls and battered croissants,
and the preconscious suddenly
weasels its way out from
beneath the bird of prey’s
span—thus denoting
the eighteenth misty
eidolon from the
cauterised recesses
of my mythologically
ideologic
pretences
of the conscious
state
of
mind.
