I thought I’d get the ball rolling with a short read: a sixteen-line poem that is yet untitled. I won’t go into too much detail as to what it’s about because I’d first like to see what you guys make of it and its meaning. Besides, everything’s subjective. I’m feeling unsure about the some of the first stanza. I’d like to know what you guys think. OK, saw away.
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The matriarch of poetry sits at her computer, deliberating.
Ruminating on the chaos, spatial conceptions thrown slightly askew.
Now she looks at you, askance, vibrating her eyes like, Sufi spasm.
A convulsion or compulsion of lightly summoning the Within.
Within you, within which you, within you which you harbor
The silage of self-doubt, stored in the chamber of nothing’s nogoodness.
You had asked if conjoining clauses fucked like same-sex couples.
To which the matriarch replied, “Yes, in the syntax of fucked-up langues.”
Her vicissitudinous stares eat at you, rapturous while discombobulating.
Her boring whorish features, the sexy jiggly strut of a prude.
She is there, almost spotlit, violently enunciating the alphabet.
Ah—Bbb—Kkk—gnawing on her pencil whose grip is worn thin.
She looks vexed, like a stroke-ridden geriatric without the faculty of speech.
And this vexes you, for the paradoxes of this earth have suddenly been revealed.
Where there is articulation, there is also grunting noises: Mmuh—Mmuh—Mmuh.
You quaver in the epiphany of your own syntactical sodomy.