Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Poetry By Simone Liggins

Simone Liggins has earned her MFA in Writing at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics of Naropa University. The foundation for her love of writing and literature was paved at an early age and blossomed during her teenage years through the kind of tortured freedom that only the ostracism of high school can grant a person. Her literary “ancestors” and various influences include but are not limited to: Sylvia Plath, Kurt Vonnegut, Dorothy Parker, Audre Lorde, Lenore Kandel, George Saunders, Laurell K. Hamilton, The Beatles, Lady Gaga, Jimi Hendrix, Tracy Chapman, and Fiona Apple

A Manic Depressive’s Observation

Sometimes I forget
how much I hate the collective.
The existence of the factions
vexes me to no end,
for the dichotic poisons
they possess are poured by the gallons
down desolate throats
that have starved for centuries
on little else but isolated ways of life.
Every breath taken from the breathless,
each crumb snatched from the hungry,
every gesture made to uphold the imbalance
goes on somebody’s watchful record.
I cannot begin
to explain how to fix you
because the sickness seems to have few cures—
almost none if one names all the stakes.
And some star examples
have dreamed of vaccines
but too meager avail in the broader scheme of things.
Yet every now and then a small stroke of love
combats the essences bent on rejection.
A chance glance here, brushed fingertips there,
an acknowledged outcry or whispers in lonely ears
More change is inevitable,
And though I watch as you retch,
as you sneer,
as you shove away
the civility, harmony, compassion, and empathy
because too much has been lost in the name of desire
and now everyone adds a flavor to the disease,
I too catch myself in hypocrisy
while reluctantly praying for a deity
to wash its hands and start again.
Humanity has failed so beautifully
to practice what it preaches
to learn what it teaches
to give what it beseeches.
So it stands that Death has no higher function
than to relieve this observer of disappointment
in you, and you, and you
and myself.

Beauty of a Storm’s A-Brewin’

“The dichotomy of light is illusion,”
she said. Grey fire is the key.
Black and White battles are meant for confusion
requiring true oracle eyes to see.

Tell it to the ashes that used to be our ways.
Scattered heart and memory fragments abound.
Catching lingered traces of bittersweet days
calls, once again, for new anchors to be found.

We warn the sky, warn the grass,
exhale the essence into the night,
sing through smoke with the midnight brass
and pulsing beats to cure the “colorblind” blight.

She said, “Egos will be fucked in our wake.
Pace the days in cloud porn; reunion is near.”
Doubt in such witch words is a mistake
in the name of overcoming the little death called fear.

How we weep for what we reap,
the lonely lack of love in what was sown.
Pray to the energies our souls they’ll keep.
Until then, each other is all that we own.

When Hurricane Hearts Discuss Retrogrades

Roguish Mercury went on a wicked mission this round,
squared up with Pluto to shine racism in the spotlight—
Black boy shot at for needing school directions;
Black men arrested for waiting in Starbucks—
but a big joke was
sending a Libra to tell stale stories while
the Pisces’s whispers long
to smother her in her drunken sleep.

Show your internalized prejudice
wrapped in cowardice,
never striving to be a true reflection
of perpetually needed Alien love.
Passing as a tan French Canadian
while denying your other color,
you dare to Google how to love Blackness—
bet you didn’t Google how to be with that new blonde.

Think the other Aquarius would stay, Aries, if he knew
how much you actually
miss diving between smooth, svelte legs,
wishing they led to ebony rainbows?
Dream of it more,
Fetishize stereotypes galore—
it’s all you’re trying to know.
Run to the people of power
with your complaints about a power you
can’t possibly comprehend, the experience
that’s yet to slice flesh & mind from being—
don’t worry. Saturn’s coming to show you, too.

That Hazel-eyed red head looked me in the eyes and
with boozy breath whispered
“all lives matter” then proceeded to show
how much one actually didn’t
by ruthlessly laughing at its sadness, gleefully
abandoning it and blatantly ignoring its presence
every chance they got.

Go ahead and declare this the ways of your people,
show yourself a shining example,
because when complacency is Boulder’s
bread & butter, I guess sometimes the civilized
just can’t help themselves.

Claim colorblindness to
excuse your willingness for conditioned separation
in color & class, to not see POCs,
not bring Goddess home to Mama,
but use lyrics of Blackness to hate and discriminate
against other Blackness then call yourself
loving to Blacks, listening to the tracks that
support stereotypes but too afraid to
face Django Jane or actually watch a Black Boy Fly.
Of course you won’t be spared when
the power is finally printed on paper
from blood & tears morphed into ink
for all the world to learn.

Little White lies fill up
a big White bubble as
obsidian Flatirons reflect tears
from the ghosts of true Natives.
Just sip more whiskey, more Chai,
your conscience down the drain,
feel no pain in happily choosing to
say words you know are wrong
out of lack-of-Black privilege.
It’s simply the American Way.

Hope You Hear This One

“Even the stars will love you!”
Whisper winds from distant seas
while carrying a hint of impending chaos.
Glow about my flesh, all for you,
this is a sacrifice, yet another,
for the first ones weren’t as pure—yet.

Ascending dimensions was the mission,
but not without knowing the weight
of all my fractals’ reflections—
must be the troll toll.
Cut out gilded chunks from goddess’s back like coins,
pound by pound,
the “truest” currency I’ve been taught to know.

Starry deserts of love across a sky
that will always be mine and yours
and hers and his and theirs and ours.
It’s bound in the blood.

Reckoning with Shadows

  • I didn’t really feel I could trust anyone who wasn’t thoroughly seasoned with me.

What is “thoroughly seasoned”? Why do I expect it to taste so burnt? Lay down a Beat with the 9 Wands, maybe stomp out a new bass line to go along with that re-freshened perception after experience claims otherwise, another excavated expectation that makes you say quelle surprise this time.

I realize I tend to sound angry as fuck in my work (to people un-solidly seasoned with me).
It feels like I’m being assertive in an attempt to reclaim
power that was manipulated out of me or
I unwittingly gave away. Maybe it’s just me being a bitch.
Maybe the latter half happens because of the former.
Maybe it’s all tangled in the loosened Ouroboros of the
World’s Wheel of Fortune.

  • I once said I’d rather greet Death than deal with those not solidly seasoned with me.

It’s part of this transformation’s turmoil, you say?
Well clutch the pearls—I already guessed it.
If we diagram that sentence, we could discover which part
is the cause and which is the effect.

  • Lacking trust in those not solidly seasoned with me was a truth I wielded like a blade—only to slash my own heart after calling myself dealing others deathly blows.

You know as well as I there are no lies in this Gemini house.
It helps to shape a home they say.
By they, of course, I mean these ancestral stars.
And oh yes, this heart will make a fine home one day—just you wait!
Here, it’s coming: A Better Version of Me, Fiona said. I always love a good “Fiona says.”
—Okay, so there was a slight delay…

Eight of Coins knows what’s up. Yeah, yeah, the flow’s still going.

Impress upon me this Impressionist dream,
this teenage-lovesick note you could sing
in colors and strokes of devoted, throbbing cocks
being welcomed by honey-drenched—
but seriously, please, don’t take me there
like my body silently wants it because I’m exhausted
from still cleaning up the shards of glass & ears &
heart & eyes & brain & wood & sky & tears
for you.
I’m so deep in shadow-digging, Peter Pan calls me now
when he’s missing his.
The faerie tale of you and me is such a
deliciously bitter guilty pleasure
—despite stinging like a vice—
but apparently there’s no right shake of the dice
for freedom
from sweetly re-woven memories of us.
I’m ready for my bullet to the brow, now, Mr. DeMille.
So close to DeVille:
—like Devil
—like Capricorn
—like hello again, Papa Asshole Saturn.
Keep letting it Linger as you watch a prized Shadowboxer Dance to the
End of Love and oblivion.
I’m reminded why I call you Asshole, Papa,
followed by how many fucks you give about it.

  • How long will the Chariot blaze on before I can trust someone un-solidly seasoned with me?

When you see me on the ground, just assume it’s an illusion.
This journey takes too long on land and too far by sea—this is why I always fly.
I didn’t really feel I could trust anyone who wasn’t thoroughly seasoned with me.
Take your whining about my lack of trust and tell it to the Reversed Scorpio Empress.
She helped me be Born This Way.
I didn’t realize you actually could refund pride in someone.

  • I didn’t really feel I could trust anyone who wasn’t thoroughly seasoned with me though the Star suggests cautious optimism to see the questioning come to an end.

This is what I wanted to believe, but it seems so
impossible at times. Squawk it on the Blackbird wings
of Death and in the
skip of the Fool and the
hope lingering in the
final sip in the 9th Cup:
Cheers to your best wishes.

  • My heart wants Justice for the wounds of being too trusting with those willfully unseasoned with me.

For the most part there’s always been a lack in the flavor of love my heart truly needs to thrive.
Please kiss it better—finally.
Daddy did his best to make up for the Sperm Donor.
Libra VS Libra—if only I’d realized the irony of Mother’s choice back then.
The scales are forever weighing the memories.
Balance out to see he was the truest man to ever love me.
It wasn’t that his persistent Airy heart wasn’t enough.
It was the more afflicted versions surrounding me that stopped at nothing to be louder.
They usually won.

  • I keep thinking that if I could just find my true mate and take three binding sips each from the Cups of love, others not solidly seasoned with me won’t matter.

I talk better when I write.
I should be writing love every day,
to the Star Twin, for the Future Love, to the forlorn shadows and
brilliant faerie flames, from magnanimous mermaids to
gnome guardians of grounding.
Remember I am still worthy of the journey
—even when floating on
tequila rivers.
Come to me, my beloved.
Come to me, as true flame’s bliss.
Come to me, as re-vamped Mother of Gods.

I didn’t really feel I could trust anyone who wasn’t thoroughly seasoned with me & my spark, but my heart’s still pulsing with it on the brink of next life’s dawn—so change my mind faster this time and come to me, come to me, come.

Bipolar? Schizophrenic? Make Up Your Mind.
This is the Geminian way, you see.
Believe the sky’s the limit when it’s truly a glass ceiling.
My hell, fresh with each night, dances and screams
from the eye of a kaleidoscopic hurricane.

My illness is my shepherd and I perpetually want.
Settled dusk of relentless imagination,
laced under rueful wit, plotted with reckless couth—
sunlight becomes a fleeting treat.

Geometry housed in plastic orange bottles
meets a tongue still numbed by greener remedies.
Pop Wednesday, pop Saturday.
I lose time in the dark.

1 comment:

  1. هل تعاني من مشكلة التنظيف هل تؤجل المناسبات نظرا لعدم نظافة وترتيب منزلك بالشكل الأمثل وسئمت من الطرق التقليدية والحلول معكم شركة ركن الشروق افضل شركة تنظيف بخميس مشيط وأرخص شركة تنظيف بخميس مشيط تنظيف المنازل تنظيف البيوت تنظيف المجالس تواصل معنا عزيزي العميل وسوف نصلك في أسرع وقت ممكن شركة تنظيف بخميس مشيط
    شركة مكافحة حشرات بخميس مشيط
    شركة تنظيف مجالس بخميس مشيط