Diagnosing [Fe{male}] Pan(sexualis)

11/28/2015

 

                  Voluntary Voice:

Dearest Mother,

Why is that

Man over there trying

On a dress?

 

            Involuntary Body:                                         

Throat convulses,

Eyes fixed,

Nervous little hands toying

With the hem of a school skirt—

Heart beating to

The herniated melody of

Overeager soldiers

Charging and stomping

To war—

Acrimonious mantras

Silenced to mere ripples

In the sea of consciousness—

                                                           

My war is hollowed

To the internal bleeding

                                    Of my identity.

 

            Id:

The appetite to touch,

To stroke,

To poke,

To feel,

To hold

Was provoking every

 Fiber and nerve of

My being as I sat on the bench

In the dress store,

Fingering

My own pre-pubescent  

Stubble on my

Legs, wondering what it

Would feel like;

Marveling at how the

Chicanery of such

A tight fitted dress on

Such robust, fuzzy

Thighs would warrant such

Involuntary reason

For a girl to

Salivate.

 

“Look away, look away.

Stop staring.”

Such muscular, sculpted

Calves: positioned,

Poised, and showcased

In such lovely red

Stilettos,

Flexing and pulsing with each step

And lean

As differed colored sequined

Gowns shifted

And drifted down the

Racks of clearance items—

None good enough for

The lavishness of such an

Omnipotent vision of

Deviance.

 

                 Super Ego:

Snickers and sneers

Followed by shuffled

Footsteps down

Staid paths

Of traditional jeers—

Unyielding—

At the abnormal,

The morass, an addled

Surreptitious haecceity under

A probing exegesis.

 

This wayward gentlewo(man)—

The tempestuous

Strut—

Had me on the precipice

Of beautitude;

The dresses now

Yield gloomy glints of a

Sepulchral nature in

The midst of

Concupiscent xanadu.

 

                     Ego:

Furtive glances excite

My umbridged malediction.

And yet, my failed attempts at

Performing my limerence

Results in a relaxed, receding

Rift in the audience’s posture

As sighs of relief

Loom in my mind

From voices that aren’t

Mine.

 

I’ll put on the powder and

Gloss, trick and deceive,

But my heart will continue

To grieve—

            *

The Unconscious (The Stage Manager):

The play has ended—begone!

Fictional romances never

Appease all onlookers,

Just as some killers

Prefer a knife to a

Gun: the intimacy

In death as uncanny

As one’s birth;

Cut the creature

Open, and what do you

See?

 

To the characters who live

Alien science fiction—

The fish bowl was tainted

Long ago;

When the curtain closes,

Continue to breathe

And parade your tail.

Ingest red lipticks

And paint those

Roses redder than

The ink that corrects

You.

 

Human suits

Preferred over

Clown capes,

Perfunctory effigies

Exacerbate avant-guard

Psyches—

A plethora of fire

Could not

Expunge this innate

Blasphemy on civilization’s

Whitest of sheets.

 

             Supra Ego:

The things they loath

Become the things I love:

All their demons swallowed

With but a yawn from

A little girl.

    My outward form remains,

                But all hell

                        is within.




 

 

 

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