Monstrosity’s Form

   How hideously gruesome!  What a monstrous form
   has by some stroke of ill fate been imposed
   on me!  What horrid shapes I'm forced to bear!
   Atrocious!  So incorrigibly mean!
   Maliciously inflicting needless strain
   and hurt, then laughing at the flood of tears,
   then laughing even more when there's no point
   as if that were the reason I got sent
   a beast to such a bloody empty hole.

   But what's not spit out must be swallowed whole,
   as I do without thinking, true to form,
   the body's burdens rushing its descent
   to sewers where most easily disposed
   race wasted dreams, designed to disappoint
   expected appetites.  The flesh I bare
   sports scars across the borders of frontiers
   insanity's inscribed on foul demeanor
   absent want or purpose to restrain.

   Vile changeling from an outlaw mutant strain!
   the enemy to souls conceived as holy
   innocence, the spoil of noble mien!
   No image is too sacred to deform,
   no art immune to agony and tears
   nor pleasure free of rotting ruin's scent.
   So be it, it's the curse I chose to bear
   as though that were the word the gods supposed
   in making up my world, to prove a point.

   You've choked it off.  You've faded to a point
   your very own.  As though it's such a strain
   to stay too close.  Say why.  Because I posed
   so rash a threat?  Because I punched a hole
   where futile panic goes?  Because I bare
   my dreams like feral breasts?  Because I mean
   you unremitting loss?  Because I'm sent
   as ugly useless garbage?  Is my form
   anathema? the acid in your tears?

   I've been there.  I have cried those very tears.
   As if you care.  Why bother?  What's the point
   your prejudice attempting to reform?
   To you love's but a monster to restrain,
   unworthy of intentional consent,
   too soon discarded as though predisposed
   to represent the worst a kiss might mean:
   an ugly fear, a stench, a wound, a hole.
   Like, total torture you can barely bear.

   Yeah right, you're like you've been mauled by a bear.
   Almost you make me move myself to tears
   decaying in your "Villains" pigeonhole
   marked "future zero" and "will disappoint."
   No footnotes needed, I know what you mean:
   my bent shape doesn't suit your uniform,
   like words that don't go in the places posed
   as indicated, like the doctors train
   your guarded systems to misrepresent.

   Your doctors, they're at fault for your descent.
   Look closer at the ID tags they bear
   and think — is it expecting too much strain
   for you to recognize they're puppeteers?
   They make you think your scars are self-imposed,
   that I'm the beast who lured you to this hole
   to make you mine.  Permit me to inform
   you of the truth: look back at them and point.
   Believe me, they will know the ones you mean.

   Be rid of me?  They're aiming to demean
   the world to which your heart gives sure assent,
   to bend your spirit to its breaking point
   and leave your head undone, alone and bare.
   Your monsters are the ones who would transform
   you into what they're seeking to constrain,
   not dangerous, not strange, not real, not whole.
   So raise your hand, they're taking volunteers
   to be the way they'd have it: decomposed.

   While I'm in exile, found out and exposed.
   They call you cured, and you think what they mean
   is that you're cured of me.  Spare me your tears.
   Get lucky, and your cure will keep me sent
   so far off you'll start thinking I'm a hole
   that caused a scare at some forgotten point
   you can't remember why nor care to strain
   to feel again.  And I'll be just the barest
   whisper of the void inside the form.

       (This whole discourse was posed in tortured tiers
       that air her form.  The point is that she'd mean
       consent: it bears the mark of her own strain.)


1 Response to “Monstrosity’s Form”

  1. 2010.05.14 at 10:50 pm

    Quite an interesting poem with strong imagery and many poingnant lines…thanks for sharing this.

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