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

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