"androgyny" poems
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
I grew up hearing
Little miss this and
Little miss that
But I think there’s been a little mistake
A little misunderstanding
Like there’s something that they missed
Because certainly sir could replace the title of miss
And mister wouldn’t stir up a fuss
And I could still be me
Right?
Ever since I was little I took pride in the word tomboy
Not realizing the other labels that pride could be applied to
Because I spent my life being lied to
About what gender really means
And I’ve been starting to question and I’ve been starting to learn
That expectations aren’t everything
And when it comes to gender roles
I grew up just rolling with it
But recently realized that I don’t have to
And I’ve been coming up with different ways of coming out
But mostly I’ve just spent a lot of time thinking
About spectrums and pronouns and labels and orientation
About binders and binaries and identity versus expression
About the way that I never really minded the onslaught of
She
She
She
Shhhh…
He
Maybe he can fit just as well
Maybe she fits fine
Maybe I can be a daughter by day and a son by night
Maybe I can bypass the binary and angle towards androgyny
Or transcend transgender in term of ambiguity
Maybe I can be
Me
And maybe someday that will be enough
Because boy oh boy there are days that I do love being a girl
But what can you do when it’s a dog eat dog world
And you were born a cat?
Just a little bit more of a ***** than you were hoping for
In this world where facts are misconstrued
And your words are misinterpreted
And you’re feeling a little
Just a little… misgendered
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
There is something about seeing a woman
in a man's clothes
that hints at recent sins,
for where are her own clothes
and why does she choose to wear
a man's shirt? A man's stink?
His salty passions, faded nights
written sartorially in drink?
The wood of his wardrobe
and his love of meatballs?
Jackets are overcoats, clothes lie,
skin peeks from behind rolled up sleeves
pants are dated, we say, **** pants.
There is a sense that what I've been wearing
has never seen better days.
I study this creature with a cat's grace
masquerading in a mongrel's wrinkled skin.
It is then I decide that these clothes
are no longer mine, that they belong
to she who they've chosen and that
I'd rather be naked than feel the shame
of being second best for my own things.
Quietly, I peel her like an orange,
tongues singing like electricity.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
Come to me great entangler of speech, until the mouth
is a thicket of word mash, you
who rakes strain out of the day to day visions.
Four nights last week you came in the dream-sweeps
flying at forty-one thousand feet. Encrusting this crimson suitcase of blood production with aurulent Trojan footstep rumbles in the hundreds of thousands.
Are you the new blues guitar, the trill bliss in satirical Dutch painting;
you who wrestles the languages of sleep. To get to keep you we'd **** all mystical beasts, sew treason, and wait naked for the dead things to come.
Remoteness in the time of the lonely.
Where you shed shivers of sharks
In wild dance and wicked tantrum, lilting
Beside the androgyny of days and Time.
You the dashboard Jesus of sin and canter.
No scurrying footsteps to barge the heavy moods of ****** or abscess.
In half breaths you weaponize yourself,
A take of drink and then with the rest of the aves,
Swallowed by the colossus of entanglement,
Taken beneath the blue awning amidst the company of the sea.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.
Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.
A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...kill them all with glee
No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.
Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?
Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.
I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.
I love only once.
Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.
My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.
How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.
I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.
she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
******** you sweet, sweet ********
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all
love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
You, that flower barely blooming; I bear thy pollination.
It is my purpose solely to cause the fruit of thy creation.
Nano art, my pantheism is objective idealism. God is in the details:
the stamen, the leaf… all is fractal, some charmingly chaotic,
All scenery composed, each part of reality is a representation;
a word of the language of reality in her garden.
Her voice is sweet like the honey suckles. Pale like her petals.
All a play, a dance, a game to the night and the sun, and to all her beloved travelers.
And while I watch her, this star behind moon and trees, behind all that I see;
behind my very being. Reality, her character is through and through me.
And in the act of creation, flower and I are as her representations,
There is no thought to our most profound desires.
Innate will to live; our mother is the essence.
Death and life are her androgyny displayed
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
you shed your androgyny in front of me
like the leaking of a dead poets mouth
prized convinction your are the killer of these things
bitten by your sharp nails
our souls blood is splattered on the wall
like a child's mess
we held hands and ran through the streets of wynwood
both nervous at the thought of people watching the passion
strangers who like to be alone
woven together in a harmonious mesh
we came across faces
and stood in that one corner and looked at that murial
on the cement wall
screaming out its makers message
in a thousand different emotions that linked to our past
I would tug your curls and they would bounce
you watched me smoke my cigarette
put on your artist eyes and pictured a painting in your head
using my ghost skin for your next piece
you drank my skin like milk hungrily
and I felt when my insides dripped down the
corners of your mouth
I throw my hands up in the air
and ask what can break me more than this
I sat in your kitchen in all black
and watched you cook me that fish, a recipe you probably
called your mother to ask for
you opened a bottle of white wine
we carried our glasses and sat outside
while I lit a smoke
your yard seemed like it was a haven for
bohemian children trying to escape South Florida's
cement buildings
you put your arm around me
and I nestled my head into your chest
at that moment I told myself here is the line
standing in front of me thick and red
shouting its warnings like old tapes of Hitlers speeches
preparing his soldiers to **** innocent children
and there it was standing like every sensitive poem I have ever read
like every painting that had a heart beat
like every smile my mother has ever shed
that red streak was not a finish line
but the beginning of something that would have turned into happy
years perhaps or just many painful nights, where I find it hard to breathe
and I thought to myself I can fall in love right now
I layed there listening to your heart beat
you kissed my forehead
I raised my head to look into your eyes
and before I brought myself to make a decision
before I started feel my heart loose
I was already walking away to the place I have known the most
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
Dawn came as exultant release called out to me,
unleashing their alluring notes from the endless chiming of hearts
like evangelical sermons directed to impure minds
constantly begging for me, like divine wind, to throw myself at your celestial body
Morning lingered when warmth embraced my hands,
setting its golden gaze on my earthly tones
like wings pristine with incensed hints on its tips
shedding light on my soul, overshadowed by a monolith of self-hatred
High noon was evident when you spoke of desire
of how you fell from admiring me from above
as the dark winds from wings aflame trailed us
as you told me of ardor, with the light silhouetting your design, with your mask before mine
The doting sun, oh so true does set to rest,
unmasked by the evils that plagued my caged cardinal
as you craved for seven heavens to soar
as you flew away from me, further each try, further away with every leap from ground to sky
Evening came without stars or moon to haunt,
when you grew weathered by winds too strong
when you decided Nirvana was no longer I
as you undid heartstrings, with feathered blades that came from your frustrated inabilities
Midnight grips at my chest but you are not within my reach,
candle light can no longer chisel your androgyny
nor courteous words be answered when I pray
but one thing true fell from a single star, that shed its light, from hope of your return–
Just do so when your appetite roars to love me again
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
Abortifacient corrupted water an insects legs making waves
Curtains of androgyny tie their bows around stifled faces
While blades of grass make fantastic ***********
Up rolling hills toward a forest of ivory condescendingly proud
With taunting whispers
The bone white limbs casting divination wistful for panacea
In the chipped teeth sinking into rotting roots of futures unseen
Mistaking aphrodisiac for apotrophic In the ithyphallic decoction
Of anthropomorphic rhizomes peelling in substitute dreams
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
trans
is the new meta
and gender
is the new physics...
homosexuality
wasn't enough to deviate from
the standard of: the next
cobbler, or blacksmith.
clockwork of benzene...
ortho congregation,
erectus tangens...
transgender
is alias for metaphysics...
bow-tie androgyny -
juiced up death-cult
of Isaiah... burried with Jesus...
a 2000 year old argument between
the two prophets.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
Fire woman, ancient flame;
mademoiselle, in this fashion you have become the sun.
madam with the white face
madam with ******* that leak
you **** wildfires into my gut
i touch myself
to your black painted eyes and
the rose hips hanging off of your gold lips
you see, there is an animal shaking inside of me
and yes ive spoken to the devil of me
i asked her to gather the light of your androgyny
and so she did, condensing it into falling stars;
i closed my eyes and opened my mouth as they crashed inside
hallucinations ignited by the forces that charged my every atoms.
i suddenly became the universe, my womb bore your flowering galaxies.
i consumed, made love to and birthed stars
you made me your ****** celestial star queen
and sent sibylline comets to burn into my chest the vow
that shined, spoke and reminded:
“i will live in your sin down to extinction.”
and your limbs,they are where extinction is found;
old love,it is where i commit to worship even when i burn
seventy thousand light years into the ground.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
I’m wrenched awake with a swaying hangover, the kind that rumbles in the back of your throat until mid-afternoon. I know that I’m late without turning my head but the only movement is the whir of the box fan in the window and the sinewy muscle of my calves twitching near the end of the bed.
It’s hard to wake up when the world outside the door has been in this way, insistent in it’s painfulness, and part of me wants to succumb to the quiet hum of this bedroom, disappear into the sheets and pretend for a moment that I never met Jordan Whitaker.
A scalding shower and a thermos of lukewarm coffee later, the sun seems way too cheery for the way my insides feel and I want to scowl at it. I swallow the bile for a moment to toss a ‘good morning’ to the old woman dragging her walking cane to the end of the driveway.
She used to drop by with cookies from time to time, but it’s been a while. I can see the toll of age and defeat on her cheeks like a fragment of my future and I have to turn away from it, towards the blinding sun mocking me quietly.
“You done yet?”
I hear his voice before I see him, taunting me in the way only a man in a position of superiority can. Archie is filthy with the kind of grease that doesn’t wash off, and all of my tricks to keep unwanted hands away, even a stubborn and unyielding androgyny, has not deterred him yet. I spit at the sidewalk before his foot lands in stride next to me, and he jerks a bit but keeps pace.
“You know, I’ve got someone on the inside of the courtroom today. Maybe you scratch my back, I scratch yours, that kind of thing?”
These words are accompanied by a haphazard set of teeth leering in some semblance of a smile. The smell alone is enough to make me want to start sprinting, but I keep my tone and pace level.
“I’m not telling you again, Archie. My leads are my own. I’ll get in there just fine.”
“Oh, the bitch’s feeling feisty today, I see!”
I watch a bead of sweat collect between his eyes as he watches me, like a pockmark. “You’re kidding yourself if you think they’ll let you anywhere near the trial with the stunt you pulled last week.
You should stop taking me for granted, you know!”
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
remember when the parabolas were to steep
and the martyr flew out of the sky to save us
all?
exposure to the curves bent us, but we stood still.
icy syncopation in our eardrums and no one could stop
our cadence.
we were cold and chilly, and our bodies began to flush out the
heat, but we stood firm. the wind whipped our eyelids,
and the river crashed into the trees.
our own metamorphosis was one of tyrannical thoughts
but purity lied between our veins. i stared at my hands for hours,
webbed and amphibian-like. we weren't ourselves
and after the fifth of March we fell into the vespertine.
transformation complete.
androgyny in its fullest form.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
you painted your nails again. spanish moss, this time.
it's meant to be a signal. an intentional marking of the body,
your (white) body, to say something. say?
the cat scratched your hand up pretty well-
you even bled a little.
there's something pleasing about the pink lines,
dents and pock marks,
knuckles russet where cold air and washing dishes
ripped away. it hurts, just a bit.
you keep your nails short, another signal.
sign in, out, off. signifying nothing?
these things are relative. related to other markers.
relating to who is doing the looking.
you are often curious as to what they see in your hands.
when they look and they don't see you,
despite the careful work you put in,
it hurts, just a bit.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
I used to get anxiety over androgyny
Because it’s the grey from which I run
But darling, as I find myself,
Two opposites make one.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
In downtrodden androgyny, the ample beast is butchered in the streets, released to the **** ******* bottom of cautioned pits, gritting limply in the lozenged fists of gimps sweating **** from their pours to no cause, nor reward, under the sword of mechanical animals, scrambling the signals to the heart, from a world apart in darting remembrance of the severance from the start departed to the end of no means in abstract pings to the outer dark.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
who does heaven’s gate open for?
there is an ideal candidate, a type of person dripping with so much grace and benevolence it sickens the normal people passing by. even the kindest among us avoid the runoff.
are they even human?
i don’t part my lips for righteousness.
i don’t spare second glances at books on par with it, either.
let the sky open for the people i know. the real people.
the beggars and undesirables, the people who cut you like broken glass and lick your wound clean thereafter.
the people just getting by, doing anything to get right there and barely reaching beyond it.
the people who live in the margins, yearning to have their name written on a line someone will read.
let me see a sky as deep as time, as vast as androgyny.
open before us with warm arms and chest to sink our earth-weary souls into.
open unto us or we will make waste of the clouds and clip the wings of fleeing angels.
if it is not for me, i will pry the door open with my fingers.
i make my own welcome.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 11:55 PM UTC
Victims, aren't we all?
In a world lost, dark,
Riddled with countless stars.
Give up a glance
Inside the twisted soul and
Never give yourself up
In this insanity spree, my dear.
Androgyny suits you.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Resilience and fluidity
Dynamics and opportunity
Creations deal with scrutiny
Be it a pattern institutionally
It seems as though I’ve crossed my eyes
I’m seeing double in the rise
An overlapping look back, a recap
Into the process of reaction
Taking and making this enlightenment be deliberate action
Thought before movement
Yet the hand strikes before the words come to mind
Death before entombment
Yet the execution happens once I’m buried alive
Bombastic exoneration for an innocent man
Glory given entitlement in the palm of the next hand
Dysfunctional psychology followed because it sounded just right
Tainted cosmology because the stars are out of sight
Bless androgyny while you say there aren’t enough wars to fight
Put it all in a blender
Dao of the contender
Going on a ******
Fix the resolution while the answer is rendered
Corner the pretender
Return to sender
Don’t miss the splendor
Got a different diet so I have to change the vendor
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
Androgyny
follows me as I walk a mile,
I sit on a bollard at the side of the road, which to all intents and a purpose, lightens the load,
time for a snack!
wonder what delights Mother decided to pack?
ugh
salad,
christ what a mess, egg and cress all over the place, but like everything else I face this with fortitude,
drink!
American cream soda, going to unload that right now,
crossing the road I'm into the 'Brown cow' a shady little spot in the snug, by the bar, a pint of best bitter and a bit la di da, I order a ploughman's, crusty and sweet, which to all intents and a purpose is 'right up my street'
I walk another mile in the day of many where any if few ever knew me or waved as I passed and at last when the Sun starts to shrink, I start to think of androgyny
which follows me.
then I sing,
androgyny, why is it you follow me, is this why I'm falling through these words that I write for you,
destiny, what music you play for me, is this an affinity with a word that is killing me.
Mother tells me to wash behind my ears before tea, I chew on a piece of toothpaste to rid my breath of the smell and taste of beer, it's
all very queer where I live.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
I am not the enemy, I don’t understand;
I can not pretend to be,
Virtues unnoticed like, I am not a trinity,
Soft winds sway misery, and often, in dignity,
They say simply be; extrinsic me,
My tendencies significantly endeavors;
Seeking subjects contrary to blasphemy,
I am odd, even when I tick-tock indigenously,
Im seeing reiterations, as in, what am I eliciting?
Measurements of variables that doesn’t equate;
There is no definite,
Morals and Ethics are not the same;
Conducts of reverence,
Polarity for skeptics, androgyny inherent,
Relative perspectives built from what is objective; It is the foundations that reap benevolence,
It’s camaraderie; a league, a nation that is element,
Compartmentalizations; references, intelligence,
However, logic is a skill that killed questions when ill intentions rationalized reasonings contrary to evidence based off lack, exemplified through biased notions creating emotions that defends or challenges what is of relevance,
Here I find myself, in inception,
Aboriginal in segments, due to destinations connected;
Pondering on theories of relativity, expressing reflections.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 9:47 AM UTC
Alright little ones lay down to sleep
Little boy with his favorite plastic Dino
Little girl with her dolly
And me with my ragged cotton stuffed dog
Never was I binary
I don't know if I ever really wanted to be
I felt like I was walking on a tight rope and I was really **** good at it never falling onto either side and never ending
And that just kinda works for me
My family loves me
My friends are caring as hell
And I feel a little like I fit
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Hold the sky lest it falls
when beauty pulls the clouds
crushing walls that project
to save the world from itself
allow light to pour within
with revelations few admit
still the brilliance will persist
as resistance is suppressed
two columns meant to preserve
decorum based on best intents
crumble when the comeliness
presses charms without regret
fay innocence displays a range
blue to pink with in-between
flow to violet as pillars fall
leaving want to mark the way
the sun and moon become one
androgyny is for the best
when the globes are conjoined
to see the grace at last combined
allow the sky to tumble down
beauty comes in many forms
denying walls that most may view
with pure desire as reverence.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181231.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC