Wednesday, July 6, 2016

dancer in the dark.

medea steps into a gladiator's arena, prepared
to face a lion
and to tame this lion.
upon stepping in, she is pushed forward
into a spotlight, and is told
to suicide with judgments of her own self and
of her bewilderment toward those who claimed

they knew what they were doing, to give
her prophecies to them in exchange
for spontaneous joy, to crash into her
past her skin like an attack of tickling continuing
past her commands of "stop". she is told

to suicide is actually a good thing, an
obedient act. to obey
is actually a really good thing.

but to command "stop" was audacious, on her part. who
did medea ever think she was?
to cast bewilderment was an attack.
she was clearly one
on a power trip and empty without it.

does she wonder about the families of those
whose lives she buries?
they spit on my face in my dreams, and now
i am unable to sleep, unable
to eat; perpetually adapting
to my state of disgust. i tell these families
to go fuck themselves.

does she ever stop to think?
she went to exact the enunciation of words that held
the hope of truth to her, but her tongue
is pulled from her mouth, her tongue,
the stretching of the word "stop"- it is desecrated.

she continues to address:

i am victimization today. i speak
of serious matters and become tickled past
my demanding "stop". i am a sensationalization.
i am a symbol which cannot be concreted into a
universal meaning as symbols
are merely representations for abstractions
yet to be figured out, if ever. i can only be interpreted.
but you are turning me into an object- a number, something
to dismiss.
you turn into the male aspect of evil, my enormous father.
you surround me with hype and dick.
you are turning me into an object,
one that is allowed only one meaning, else
war becomes a justification

to break out.
you are turning me into a holocaust that is never
to be believed in, never to be believed
you keep truth hush hush. my teeth rot out. i must
throw up, vomit you out.

i was not evil nor ever even outspoken.
i was only a priestess taken to throwing up.

you showed up.
i am what the world talks about, the world
in my mouth, the world
i prepare to kill by throwing up.

she is a tree in a forest,
she is told, there is no sound,
that's just the way it is,
that's just too damned bad.
never stop to question that which is determined
as truth.
we are the forefathers.
we have the truth's back.

medea steps into a gladiator's arena believing
she will be believed to fear a lion whom will only be tamed
by her hand. medea is meaning to say
watch out, this world is mine, gushing out
from between my front teeth.
your power is no power, we seem
to all believe of each other.
you do not tell of the choices you make. you choose
to rot.
this is what she means to say, but she sees
everybody is killing themselves.
into the arena they jump, dying
on impact. suicide
has become a hop, skip, and a jump.

i am so sorry, medea, her sympathizers cry. this has
not been your fault, they continue.

this world is mine, medea addresses them.
i am old and nothing without it. time
slows for me. i have gained understanding
of eternity.
but you all are young.
listen to me only this one time: run
from our paradise into the sky.
run as bombs are dropped from the sky.

do not believe in the black smogs
we have turned ourselves into. look upward

and see otherwise. see
no enemy. see only the sky.