My third entry to the dVerse Open Link Night for poetry. This piece is perhaps one of the most experimental, visceral, and metaphorically exaggerated poems I've written in a long time. Anyway, as this is a blog hop, I cannot let you begin reading without mentioning that we have a link-up where you can find more poetry to feed the hunger.
Web of Interpretation - for the Open Link Night #409
I am engulfed by my tortuous desire
to make out with a god.
I want to shove my tongue in his mouth,
inhale his secrets and keep them in my belly,
I want to trace his skin like my favorite book
while reciting the lines I find most fascinating
until "out of context"
becomes embedded in my language.
I'd do so just to entertain the muse
that has been chanting poetry in my ear
from the time I read faerie-tales.
But instead,
I have been constructing
a counterfeit of a story-book lover,
a perception of his divinity.
Materializing my fixation with the fabrication
in my overly romanticized prose,
while calling it art.
Because the gods aren't interested in heretics like me,
clawing incantations into the flesh of men:
"Love me,
love me,
adore me,
please,
like I have never been before."
or make me cum—
the venom stings the same.
For my God is mute,
a simple man,
while I am a Molotov in his palm,
with kerosene filling my lungs,
and I am about to pop like a balloon.
"Haven't you heard,
dear Muse,
that in a world of highly optimized rhyme,
self-destruction,
oversharing,
and dirty,
messy,
ugly poetry
are considered the new sexy?"
The other day I got a boy tangled up
in a web of my innards thrown up on a page—
I wonder if he thought I was hot
when he dreamed of me convulsing in his bed,
eyes in the back of my skull,
hexes dripping from the corner of my mouth.
He was not the first
and he won't be the last
entangled in the web of interpretation...
Admirers have thought of me as Joan of Arc
but I am nothing but a preposterous poet
dressed up as the next best thing
to show off to your mother.
And I'm sorry for breaking a heart
yet again.
But one would need to place their hands around my neck
to stop the flow of words
if it hurts so much,
because
conversion of faith—
it is simply not my style.
There's more of my work:
If you like short stories I have them scooped up into one category (including the six-sentence stories).
Or maybe you prefer poetry,, more personal entries can be found at the Blog.
There's also the IT studies blog in Estonian and "Chaos in Spring" on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.
Interesting
Much love
How weird that akismet flagged your comment as spam.
I have read quite a few of your pieces too and think they are interesting too.
Thank you.
A powerfully honest poem, unapologetic and provocative. And such a fitting title too.
Thank you so much!
that in a world of highly optimized rhyme,
self-destruction,
oversharing,
and dirty,
messy,
ugly poetry
are considered the new sexy?
You nothing if not thought provoking, Reelika…
Now I must go and interrogate my own offerings…
Oh no, don’t interrogate them too much, in case they get scared.
Thank you for the comment :).
Read* please don’t traumatize your writing too much haha. I like your writing :).