"androgyne" poems
F
M
Agender
Androgyne
Androgynous
Bigender
Cis
Cisgender
Cisgender female
Cisgender male
FTM
Gender fluid
Gender non-confirming
Gender questioning
Gender variant
Gender queer
Intersex
MTF
Neither
Neurosis
Non binary
Other
Pan gender
Trans
Trans*
Trans female
Trans* female
Trans male
Trans* male
Trans feminine
Trans musculine
Transgender
Transgender female
Transgender male
Transgender musculine
Transgender feminine
***********
*********** female
*********** male
Two spirit
And
"Turquoise green tertiary spirited Eskimo"
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
My body
Is not obscene.
It is not something
That needs to be hidden,
Brought out only in the dark of bedrooms,
And showers,
And alleyways,
And incognito mode.
My body
Is not for sale,
Not a commodity, though if I chose to sell it for money you'd ridicule me--
Deep down you love it, don't you?
The fine you pay for fine curves and no promises.
Those desperate nights you need something to come into.
Is that what we are?--
Somethings?
And no sooner exchange the dollar for a dance than sweettalk for ***
And I could do the same to you, too-- I am not excused.
Not that you know that. We all pretend I can't...
Just a prize to be won?
I'm not anyone!
Come on, try to take me...
And when you do, oh-oh-oh!
Congratulations!
Lucky you!
You got me.
Success
Sweet success.
I have desires too,
But they don't matter--
If I want to **** him, he's the one who won
Because females don't desire.
And being trans?
Genderqueer?
Androgyne?
Hell, that doesn't exist!
What a load of ****
And I smile now, because I don't remember how to cry.
I am not allowed to desire,
And if I do, and I reach what I want,
Then I am a ****
Worthless.
Trash.
But were I a "real" man,
I would be a winner for it.
Anger has lived in me.
Jealousy has made my bones its home.
I am not allowed to exist.
I am not allowed to want.
I am not allowed to sin.
I am not allowed to be.
I am a second, a lower form.
Collateral--
And I'm yours.
Why do you worship my body and yet disrespect it?
And disrespect me?
I cannot exist.
Kiss me just to shut me up----
I'm tired of pretending to be human in a world that won't let me be.
I quit.
You complain that I complain.
But sexism pervades every moment of my life:
I am constantly fighting it;
Each kiss, every ****
My schooling, my career,
Everyday conversations,
All of my relations to other people, no matter which kind,
Each time I shower,
Get dressed,
Exercise,
Turn on the TV,
Go out to the pool or a hotel or on a walk,
Sexism is there to hold my hand.
It is with me.
I've never had an ally so loyal.
It wouldn't dare leave my side.
Would I dare?
To leave it behind?
Would you?
Could we join hands,
Across genders,
Across sexes,
Form a new alliance?
One that helps me feel safe in my own body,
My own mind,
My own home?
That gives other women and other afabs a chance to be seen as more than just bodies?
Will there be a day when I can stand beside an amab, both our chests bare, and be seen as equal?
Will there be a day when you will see me as my gender?
And will there be a day that you will finally see a trans woman as more of a woman than me?
We may be females.
Biologically or mentally--
But that does not define us.
We define us.
This is My Body.
It is not me, but it is mine.
It will never belong to anyone else.
My Body.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
she opens herself to the horizon
holding desire heavily in her breath
so crushing and withheld
the quiet rush of blood
bleaching his embrace
words withdraw in their matrix
only the form of his lips in her smile
and his walk in her feet
and making love so light
when the truth is androgyne
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
the phoenix arising
from ashes of the fire
of passion ignited,
by the heat of desire,
ever hungry, forever wanting,
Searching for her mate.
Five hundred years she soared the skies,
Over mountains, fields and sea,
With hope of this meeting,
Which is never to be.
Her fate to be solitary,
Although ever hoping,
to unite with her lover,
for whom she is longing.
Complete within, the phoenix,
The male and female melding,
who needs no other to be whole
an androgyne- the perfect being.
Although perfect the phoenix is,
She, like humankind, desires
with her true mate, a Unity,
which fate denies her eternally,
So she may show to all of us,
That within us each, is present,
That absent one, for whom we cry,
Our true lover, whose name is “I”.
Because desire for another,
True purpose, she forsaking,
The gods then bade her burn
on the pyre of her own making.
from her wholeness,
emerged a new creation,
from what remained ,
the ashes of her desolation.
she lives again, another age
so that all mortals, remembering,
Through myths of her, the firebird,
Same it is – the ending and beginning.
But, if return will someday bring
At last, to us, our lover true,
I, a mortal, and like the phoenix,
Will bravely go with hope anew,
With all forsaking,
Ever yearning,
through pain of the fire,
of my own making.
From desire, the chains of matter feeds,
Upon the spirit which must be free.
Then, we must, as the phoenix return,
to the same cycle, which is always to be.
When no longer we seek beyond,
When desire is stilled, and in sleep lie,
We will then hear that whisper from our heart,
And we find our true lover, whose name is “I”.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Death affirms and is the term of life;
flesh and firmness, egg and ***** the means.
Breath interred within a Word and light,
deftly perched perpetually in-between:
born to discontinuous distraction,
borne through a contemptuous nadir;
but in a moment, all's destroyed,
and in the black and empty of the void,
a helix (and a hollow core) appears.
Baphomet the emblem of Its power,
sacrament the reverence revealing
devilment to Wisdom yet to flower,
absent comprehension of Its meaning.
Pan personifies the All unbounded,
flouts the misconceptions of the seeing:
Hermes the unmaskèd death,
Aphrodite's basking cleft,
the androgyne transcends within its being.
O - not called "the little death" in jest,
Gnosis vaunted in the ebb of Lust,
though is Not, the know'r of Life and Death:
know that All It Is is what thou Wast,
Its continuity the end thou seekest
in contemplation, *** and wist for death:
Thanatos, eternal sleep,
Eros, infinitely deep,
Generation poised to manifest.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
I - The Sound Abattoir
Crisp fractal, sunlight
on new-day sweat.
No one inside knows
about the new day yet.
Forms **** and spin
and they toil not.
Skeletons can sway
with impulse 'til they rot.
Crush-a-pill with rosy tint
to last you all the night.
Catch-a-number 'neath your tongue
and later you'll revive his Fright.
Pleasure, fleshly grimace
scours the brain against the skull.
Apartment movement never stops
and starts and sweat-sheen from the pull.
II - O Androgyne
I cannot see the world for his broad face.
The smell of sulphur would be welcome but
To choke the alcoholic reek he brings
By clutching him to me in slick embrace.
I gain his absence when I ask for breath
And he, the smiling nitwit, must consent,
So I duck to the streets with haste and breathe.
A moment in my father's sight is death.
He could not know the life that I now lead,
And all the misery I rail against;
My form is set upon the grind of days
To starve in hard-brick walls of earthly need.
Moonlit ********** strips charm from the sick
And faces all too masculine leer back
From windows; prostitutes with glitter hair
As deathbed cries of need cut down the quick.
III - A Solomon Grundy Secret
I will be, as a child,
Crushed under black boot
and throttled with Belt.
Taught to be the Man we were.
I am, as a man,
disciplined with the
golden silence
and icegrip of
solitude. No one knows
my stigmata better than
the Romans that wash
their hands of me.
I was,
as graying
Figure
nearing death,
too late to
utter any-thing of
Weight
at my
dying,
Last
breath.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.
They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless
anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons
Listen:
there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But
who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
Two
Halves
Never one whole
Left
Right
But why not both?
Dividing me
Into "opposing" categories
But you can't have one without the other
Neither male
Or female
Simply both
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 8:20 PM UTC