v Image by Mateus Campos Felipe v
syllogí
peruse along these hallowed halls
Monologues of an Achillean
A poem made for my partner on our second anniversary of being together.
Tar
Two poems about my experiences with depression.
the musings of a vessel
Three poems about my relationship with my gender, gender envies, and other assorted realizations.
Monologues of an Achillean
Image by Evie S.
“I want to love men in a way only another man could.”
“But how do men love other men?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what I’m hoping to figure that out.”
We had this conversation quite a bit ago,
When the skies were clear and the winds were sparse,
When the sweltering sun kissed our olive skin,
Leaving loving sun burns in its place
When the moon could barely shield us from the heat,
When the night disappeared as quickly as it came,
When the splash of cool water was our only comfort,
Those were the freest days I can remember
In the months that followed our quick exchange, I pondered over your question
Mulling it over when I woke, when I rose, and when I dreamt
Tracing back the roots of our history - our history as men, of men, and by men
Breaking through narratives shackled by binary views, guarded dimwitted folk
I looked to the Greeks, hoping for answers
In Ancient Greece, boys loving other boys was normal. Healthy, even.
It was a sign of carefree youth, and the foolishness that follows
Is this how men love other men?
I looked to the Romans, hoping for answers
In Ancient Rome, their men loved other men, too
It was a guilty pleasure, a crime only the richest could get away with
Is this how men love other men?
I looked to the present, hoping for answers
I see my people dead on the streets, shot by degenerates in blue vests
I see my people forced to love in secret, hushed to silence by pigs drunk on corruption,
Is this how men love other men?
On my fervent search, there were only three ways of love between men that I found noteworthy
They love each other only briefly, before the expectations of adulthood knocks on their doors
They love each other shamefully, because their love is merely a vice - an addiction
And they love each other in fear, knowing they may not be alive to see each other the next morning
I’ve thought, and thought, and thought. And yet none of these come close to capturing the ways I love you
Distanced, we may be, but fonder my heart grows
For the palms of your hands, and the way they used to fit right next to mine
For the crooks of your neck, and the peace I found in them, when we were together
When we were together, in the solace of my kingdom,
Our bodies melted into each other
Sizzling, we limited the space between us until there was none at all
A smoky aroma of pleasure wafted in the pale moonlight
Roses dissolved in my throat, taking away my speech
Yet language spouted from me all the same
I had constructed a choir from your heavenly touch,
And I sang an ode to your body, to your being, and to your soul
With hedonistic lust crafted by our artisan hands,
We danced the night away to a rhythm we know so dear
Skin burning, heart yearning, I pressed myself against you
Until our cries shook the sparrows from their nests, and startled the hares from their tunnels
In our union, I sensed the smell of melting iron,
I felt a pulsating beat of a living drum, slick with crimson
In the cavern of my body, I found a pair of wings
And I used them to fly, far, far away, until the sun and moon and stars were but dots in a wide horizon of nothingness
My palace is empty, now. Cold and silent.
Devoid of the enthusiasm, the passion, the life you brought with you
In the safety of your love, I found my freedom
Something I grip onto tightly, and will refuse to let go
My freedom, it seems, distorts how people see me.
People caged by their delusions - their prejudice - can only see the blood dripping from my eyes
They hear my sordid cries when I lay in and empty bed at night,
And they deem me unholy
They call me many things. A monster — demon, even.
But I show off my devil horns and spiked tail with pride
I am a gnarly, satanic, passionate creature
With long claws and a sharp tongue
But I don’t care, as long as I can love you the way only another man can
I will love you for as long as I have eyes to witness your beauty,
Ears to croon at your saccharine songs
Hands to touch, and touch, and touch -
And a heart to entrust with you, my love
I will love you as boldly as my small frame can allow,
With every “I love you,” I denounce the Holy Gospel itself, and those who live by it
With every kiss, I spit at the feet of narrow-minded priests who fear our power
With every embrace, I am reminded that the only religion I need is you
Lastly, my darling, I will love you devoid of fear
You, who has granted me wings to soar
You, who has gifted me the resolve to see this question to the very end
You, who is worth every drop of my love I’ve been giving you for the past 2 years
Happy anniversary, dearest. I love you.
Tar
Image by Наталья Кленова
I am roommates with an eldritch being.
It is ugly. Goo, tar, and other macabre spills from its lips.
It sits on my desk. Watching me.
Whispering archaic words from a language long dead.
It keeps me up at night, torturing me with its gravelly, wretched voice.
I am being followed by an eldritch being.
It mutters the same phrases over and over again - phrases I do not know the meaning to
It seems to despise itself. I am indifferent to its internal struggles.
I have my own problems to attend to on top of having to house this creature.
It followed me to the kitchen last night, spreading its fluids all over the floor.
“Pour your entrails all over the counter, why don’t you?”
It looks at me. “You are the real monster here.”
And I wake up in a pool of my own sweat.
It is still there. Sitting on my desk. Watching. Waiting?
“I need to use the desk. Please, sit anywhere else.”
My request falls on deaf ears. I look to my floor and see that it is filled with the creature’s filth.
I am stuck in my own bed.
It started to sing a while ago. Its voice is flat and emotionless.
I want to claw my ears off. I have been laying on this bed for days.
I want to rest. Desperately so.
But it keeps on singing. And I restrain myself from ripping out its mangled throat with my bare hands.
It has been like this for months. I am lying in bed, listening to this creature.
I don’t know what it’s saying. I don’t know what it wants.
But it has me trapped in my room. My limbs ache from disuse.
It has taken a liking to my desk. I am too afraid to move it away.
I need my desk. My responsibilities are piling up the more I lie in wait.
Waiting for this creature to be bored of me.
There are days where it is completely silent. When my floor is clean and I can attend to my needs.
But there are also days when it wails so loud all I can do is wail in tandem.
But no matter what, I always find it on my desk.
On some days, it writes poetry. On others, it simply sits and stares at itself with distaste.
However, the mess on the floor is worse than usual.
I drag my feet through its fluids, much like walking through sticky honey. It’s taxing just to get my door open.
I am told that this being is normal. I am told that I’m lucky, even.
This creature is only sitting. It’s never tried to directly harm me.
But it still impairs my ability to function.
I see others moving about their homes, eldritch being out of sight.
I see others dashing gracefully from one task to the next,
unburdened by the tar that has stuck to my legs and left me exhausted.
It is an achievement for me to get my door open. To them, it is but an effortless gesture.
But I am still lucky, aren’t I? I haven’t been killed by my eldritch being just yet.
They are making accommodations for me. They say that my eldritch being is out of control.
Out of control? All it does is sit on my desk all day, singing songs that are undoubtedly filled with self-loathing.
I lay on my bed as they try to lift the being off my seat. I don’t know what to believe.
But I know there is no use. It has glued itself in place. I will never be free from this creature, and I don’t know what that means for me.
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It’s louder than usual today.
Claw marks are scattered across the door. It doesn’t know how to open it.
You want to leave? After all the suffering you’ve put me through?
It whines, banging its head on the exit. With each pound, a tremor resonates through my walls.
“We’re stuck together. You and your stupid tar has made us inseparable.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. You were right, you know. I am a monster.”
“Monsters should stick together. We are harbingers of misery and sorrow.”
“Nobody can help us. All they can do is listen to us cry in pain over and over.”
I dare to move closer to it. It hisses at my presence.
I make myself comfortable in all its filth, ignoring the queasy squelch from each step I make.
I sit beside it as it writhes in agony.
Like a rabid animal, it lets out a guttural growl. It’s backed itself into a corner.
“You have no right to be scared of me after all you’ve done to me.”
I look at it in all of its ugliness.
It’s fed me lies about myself. It’s fed me lies about the people I love.
And yet it has the audacity to cower before me, as if anything I’ve done to it could compare to the atrocities it has committed.
“Why do I let you have power over me? It would be so easy to snap that neck of yours.”
“It would do me a great favour. I wouldn’t have to listen to you whine about your misfortunes.”
It lets out a hallowed laugh.
“You’re laughing now? I never knew you could feel happiness”
“You would never dare to kill me. You’re too afraid.”
“Afraid? All you do is sit on my desk all day, preventing me from working.”
“I’m not sitting on your desk anymore. Why aren’t you working now?”
It has a point. My responsibilities have been piling on my shoulders. It’s a difficult weight to carry.
“You smashing your head on my door isn’t exactly conducive to a good working environment.”
“Excuses, excuses”
I raise my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re scared of being alone. I’ve been with you for so long that you don’t know what it’s like to have an empty room.”
“You’re scared that I’m not the reason you’re not yourself. You’re scared that the problem lies within you.”
“But what else would be causing my problems? I was functional before I made the mistake of letting you into my home.”
“I was always here. You just never saw me until recently.”
“The voice in your head telling you to kill yourself. The voice in your head that tells you you’re better off dead.”
“That was me.”
“Well, all the more reason for me to kill you where you stand.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You have no proof that it was I who started it all.”
It was right. And I hated it.
The tar beneath me has hardened, locking me in place.
I don’t know how to function without this creature. I’ve never lived without it.
I look outside my window.
At the people who seemingly have no eldritch beings perched on their shoulders, whispering songs of self-pity.
I will never be like them. This world was made for them, and I am a broken cog in an otherwise efficient mechanism.
“You are a cog covered in dust and tar. You can only slow the progress of the others around you.”
“Perhaps if you were dead, things would be easier. For both you and me.”
“Shut up- SHUT UP.”
“You know I’m right. Just end our collective suffering now. It shouldn’t be too hard, you’ve made the preparations a long time ago.”
I cannot finish this poem. The eldritch being is much too loud.
It’s ruptured my ear drums, yet I can still hear its godforsaken wails.
I am a broken person writing poems, hoping that they will fix me.
But as I sit on my floor, sticky with tar, I realize that they won’t.
You can’t fix something that’s never worked in the first place.
The musings of a vessel
Image by Lilian Pereir
