Author: momo

CONCEPTUALIZED POEM: STEPHENIE

Posted on by momo

She traipses along the Utah sidewalks at dawn
a purse slung across her chest
and a gaggle of children between her legs,
studying high school boys in an odd, pedophilic way
that rather suits her homely Mormon disposition.
as she imagines the sins she’d commit with them,
dense fog rolls in, and with it,
an unknown silver Volvo.
the woman stops and looks at the car curiously,
trying for a moment to imagine a sexy teenager driving it
instead of its current passenger, an aging businessperson
the woman inches closer to the car,
and the car, in return, reverses away from the creepy woman.
pathetically, the woman drops to her knees,
ignoring the children biting at her ankles.
a child shrieks, and the car floors away.
“how long have you been seventeen?”
says the woman to herself,
as she is left behind in a cloud of exhaust.

CONCEPTUALIZED POEM: GET MY HAIR DID

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When I was a young gay
my mom hated me
my intention remains a mystery to this day
I dyed my hair with kool aid
fighting for my right to party
fighting for Sparta
each strand was black
a color I strived to bleach
loreal would not take me
and manic panic was my only solace
Tuesday
proposition eight
fashion got the better of me
consumed with the basic urge to change my hair color
I did the thing
I went to the salon
it was around mid day
the busiest time at supercuts
when I spied a chair manned by the most ombre’d hair
Shirley was her name
and she had the most awful queens accent I’ve heard in years.
approaching the counter, my eyebrows twitched
and I realized it was time to get them threaded.
“GURRRRLLL!”
A voice cried out
immediately I jumped back
startled and filled with terror at the sight before me.
my eyes, I questioned, were they failing me?
in front of me stood a drag queen named Biblegirl666
But her hair was gone
All that remained was a wig cap and falsies.
in her hand was a weave.
and she was holding it out to me.
greedily, I took it from her and clipped it in.
when I looked back to thank her,
I saw that her well manicured hand was extended closer to me,
waiting for me to pay.

LONG HAIR DON’T CARE

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So I have an issue…called the side mullet. That’s what happens when you don’t maintain your undercut. I shaved the left side of my head in July down to a 2 and now it’s about four inches long. Great, right? I mean, I’m trying to grow my hair out, so yes, four inches is great indeed. But like, not when the rest of my hair is nine inches long. Because now I look like a confused hockey player circa 1994.

Work in progress: Succubus

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So ATM I’m working on a novel/rap/epic poem about this vampire chick who eats fuckboys. You know what a fuckboy is, right? a fuckboy is basically a guy who pretends to be into a girl and goes out of his way to be “interested” just to get laid. Fuck. Boy. So anyways, this succubus goes after fuckboys as a metaphor for destroying the patriarchy. In the meantime, she’s starting a coven of succubi by sleeping with girls and showing them The Way to destroying men. It’s great. It’s gonna be so great. I just have to stick with the idea and not get tired of it/not let my attention span divert me elsewhere.

Prelude to the refuse

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Look here, so some petty drama has led me down the path of poet-come-blogger and I’m trying to find somewhere to start. Now, of course, that has everything to do with my existential anxiety piledriving me into a vacuum. Not to mention my rampant addiction issues that seem to control my life and livelyhood, but that’s another story for a better time when I’m sober…which is never.

ATM I’m heaped on my sofa, hot laptop atop my lap, sitting on my extensive poetry collection I’ve permanently borrowed from the local library. Not that they want their books back if they’re all highlighted and underlined, tabbed like a hippie. Poems, memoirs, plays, all under my ass absorbing the poofs I expel courtesy of the half gallon of milk I binged on today.

I’m dizzy, my tongue’s numb, glasses are crooked but the insurance on them is up so I can’t get them fixed. Who cares anyway? This is writing. This is art. This is drama. This is LIFE. THIS MAKES NO SENSE AND I LOVE IT.