FEATURING NASTIA VOYNOVSKAYA
hey so
i just finished this poem last night, im no writer really
it's not that great, didn't have much time to finish
haven't really been on a stage in a while
and i don't really know how to read it
because
it's a sloppy mess of mechanical mindworks
un-inspired and nonsensical
i can't believe
i wrote this in an hour
to call myself a writer leaves a taste on my tongue so sour
it reverse-big-bangs y mouth
back into a single,
ugly
point in my mouth,
i can't talk.
no-tongue leaves lips quivering around
jumping teeth and glazed gums,
no
i'm not that nervous
but it may seem that way.
it might seem i don't do poetry proper,
paper hands speaking much softer,
having trouble turning trouble
into choreographed authors, they
write bruised biographies.
but this is not about my jagged politics
unfortunate violences
or reclamation.
i don't want your conflict, gender this,
fuck that.
you shouldn't have to jerk
to the rhythm of my tensions and
disputes in order to be moved by my
words.
i don't want to have to make you cry
for you to make a sound, a verbal cue
that this message moves you.
i'd sooner hiccup over a laugh track
looped into my line breaks.
but i don't have the steady hands
to cross-stich digital sounds
into sampled paper.
i just shake paper handshakes,
receptacles of collective nerves
that travelled from brain to fingerprints
in hopes of relaying the message that
my mind
is
fucking
cluttered,
pack-ratted and hoarded
i need a purge...
so i wrote this
but i'm not a writer
so i never started.
