Lovely Penguin

This is a poem I wrote several years ago. It was a transitional time in my life before I went to college. Reading it now, I find it resonates more with who I am today rather than the vision I had for my future self a few years ago…anyways, it’s a funny poem, kind of.

by marie Gordon

marinating in color clover green
in a glass tunnel hollow white
crowded in like currency in tubes
in the back of a fridge, another holiday trite

in the back of someone’s mind
thinks, a housewife, a mother, a hostess
of the little palindrome condiment
withering, peeling, sinking, into a vast darkness

I’ve lost everything, my heart, and my soul
My sexuality, for good, is gone
Pop me in a festering jar and tighten the lid
a sour, wrinkled olive raped of rations and of spawn

It’s so vile to be pickled like dessert
Then neglected like elegant gourmet
Who wants an olive strained of taste and seed
In a filthy jar, with a decadent mass of decay

My floating thoughts conjure ,breaking, escape
To compensate the frigate bitter cold
Under chilled Mt.Olive’s rusty cap I must conspire
Over piled turkey, staring out, my livid realm of mold

it’s time for change- for the little olive to rebel
It’s time for the Evil inside my dirty skin to repel
With odorous accord and violent rage
My stench shall free a wrath from this lucid cage

Those who mocked my taste will feel the pang
Of olfactory machinery firing like a tank
Rancid rage- like frigid fire
Salable air off the open door’s plank

Beware I’m sliding forward to say farewell
Ready to desecrate an aspiring pastry’s façade
Ready to break the barricade of chilly air
And teach consumers why glass bottles should be fraud

Here’s my fired warning in the stagnant air- a toast:
Bottoms up to vegetable vodka of freshness drawer
Here’s to my imitation kamikaze soufflé
Here’s to the pickling of destruction and leftover decay

Ah, the flood is rushing like a storm
Flushing out the floors and bleeding stench
Rapids of seedless olive and freedom’s scent
A suicide note written to a neglectful host/wench

I’ll tell you what a guillotine is now
You freaks, you ungrateful bloated swine
I’ll show you, the essence, of my spirit
My civil hatred up rise, reaped off a foreign vine

the olive has unleashed a searing fire
igniting senses and grasping bearings of desire
to rot in unmarked grave of disposal
the eulogy of this olive’s modest proposal

Farewell friends, lovers… neglectresses of a future gourmet dish
this evil olive repents not- but here’s a small goodbye
To the comet that will shine for me
When my memory is wiped and dry

I say to you with scorn:
You let me fester in a vial
A castrated vegetable rotting away
In a swarm of dirt and bile

Goodnight, bon soir
I hope your palate tastes my sour retribution
That your fridge of hatred resents my darkness
Caveat emptor to the insipid tongues which forced my execution

Technorati Tags: evil, olive, heteronormative, marie, gordon, poem, poetry, personification, alienation

By Marie Gordon

I am down here at the ocean’s vents
Pitch black and boiling in the darkness
Next to lampreys and slimy sea things
Mingling together in their sauna

The sponges soak slime from shooting eels
I float in the midst of their frenzy
Of attacking vikings and victims
Dipping in seaweed, wandering out

I hover, little octopus dull
Within this feeding swarm but not
Included in the festivities
Like the eels and the sponges that swim

They synchronize puzzles together
They are fitting, and sensible fish
Diving absurd, chaotic, trenches
Swooning heteronormative weeds

I am purple and invisible
Under a curtain exposed by glows
Neons and shining scales push me out
From my little cave into the blaze

I see eels wrapping sponges tightly
Basking in glowing darkness and depth
Unafraid of the unknown trenches
Soaking up steam and comfort from vents

This dark floor is their homey cabin
With its crevices, steams, alchemy
Mysterious creations tandem
With the banal process not unknown

I watch for other octopuses
While I hover over spectacle
An outsider inside their fury
Feeling the heat in my tentacles

I am polymorphous not squishy
Floating fingers, not straight dashing stripes
I am absorbent of my own kind
But I cannot soak up like a sponge

I like to hover in my bubble
My spherical body so purple
That it terrifies your swarming love
Only because I don’t soak or slime

A lonely octopus but gleeful
In good faith amongst green seaweeds
Don’t tell me I’m not an octopus,
That I dropped my glasses in the sand

I feel with my little arms the warmth
Of your hetero vents that freeze me
In my place to hover above you
Only to cloud your world with my ink

Technorati Tags: octopus, inky, marie, gordon, poem, poetry, lgbt, heteronormative, sponges, soak, eels, slime, duke

This poem is about identity and how we develop perceptions of ourselves. In relating the present to our history the wholeness of our identity seems to scuttle away.
By Marie Gordon

This isn’t the girl
Who jumped off her porch
With a plastic bag
For a parachute

Who with her brother
Downed a scope bottle
Barely suspecting
The consequences

She slept like a kid
The sun didn’t rise
Before she lay down
She didn’t check locks

I have left you now
I did leave you then
You are words and tales
Not my history

You trace rhetoric
Over smooth-skinned ears
That haven’t been pierced
But your words don’t spell

These words leave you out
Laying on the ground
After a high leap
From the porch shouting

You have lost volume
Given it over
Because I ruined
The words that we had

Like our paradise
And our red nightmares
The songs we danced to
I busted the tape

In thinking of you
I write you away
I write me away
Into breathless words

We sit on the porch
I stare at that ground
Parachute ready
My words won’t help you glide

Technorati Tags: marie, gordon, history, poem, poetry, child, parachute, present, rhetoric, words, written, identity