Megan Thompson

Poetry

 

 

Cruise Lines

 

I. I don’t understand your love

I’m just a mermaid sprawled out on some oceanic rock

reading a message in a bottle

I will give you this locket to remember

me by. Until we meet again

 

and a voice like thunder cracks in my head

and the sea says to me “you are mine, you are mine”

and the sea says to me “you are mine”

 

II. stop that splashing

don’t get me wet

my flashing green scales will show

I can lean over the side of this ship

and see the fires burning deep below

 

III. I like to think of sea horses

the males that have the babies

ugly little squiggles popping out of their pregnant bellies

and wonder what their religion must be like

 

IV. the stars reflecting on

the ocean make me dream

I’m swimming in a sea of stars

 

V. Don’t listen to white haired sea witches who say:

If you write the name of the man you love

on a cigarette and smoke it

in the morning he’ll be yours

 

 

 

Pythia

 

Do not call me mad because you cannot see it

If you could see as I have seen

You would not doubt

the Gods

You would not think it strange to sit

before this chasm

making men

realize their destiny

May I tell you a secret?

It is the destiny of all men

to ruin women and then blame them for it

How odd. I cannot describe to you

how strongly my mouth just tasted of apples!

As I was saying, men always wish to ruin what they love

it is inevitable

It is why I came here in the first place

Do you think I like staring into this bowl all day

in this slinky red chiton?

I have the power to make men into Gods

or beggars

(All in the name of Apollo of course)

 

 

 

Pythia: The First Maxim

 

Know Thyself

They think I mean to humble them before the gods

Socrates, always dawdling on about his ignorance

thought I was preaching a perverse sort of wisdom

but any man who ever discerned my true meaning

would never set foot in this temple

 

They come to me seeking answers

as if I know any better than they do

Why does it take a raving ecstatic virgin

to tell people what they already know?

Do you think anyone is going to come in here and tell me:

“Darling, I really don’t think it’s healthy for you

to be inhaling all those vapors and conversing with Apollo all day”?

Of course not! I’m the mouthpiece of the gods 

and I’ll do exactly as I please

You do the same

That’s the only real advice I can give you

 

 

 

The Parade

 

I am the navel people often see winking

from the window of the levitating tower

I can see Death

masquerading as a white horse 

followed by an ecstatic Eve

perhaps she’s never seen so much sand

so frantically she moves between the curtains

or perhaps it’s the end of days

because I can hear Gabriel

blowing furiously on his horn

 

I unwillingly begin to undulate

 

at the end of the train is Adam

shouldering a cross, he occasionally falls to one knee

He wears a wire halo, his own pitiful contraption

I can hear the brood mare’s neighing laugh:

As if I were not the most cherished dream

 

 

 

Tristesse du Corps

 

I stuck another pin in my tights

“piqué, hold, drag”

black tights

for a piece on...

xeroxing!

 

Reclining in the stairwell

Our perfect Giselle

is arching her back

in high release

to look up at the stars

between ruined walls

 

I wrapped my jambes around the rails

when the electric hairspray cloud

floated out to find me

It leaked all over.

the warm noise of the dressing room

Behind the green door.

 

An impatient look-

her power rests

in the divine right

of perfect arches

I follow her in.

 

Tripping over starving cygnets

that hover in exclusive circles,

to peel off skin

and promote the desecration of hips.

How they break and bend

bleed and darn

until human frailties have fled!

and abandoned

the ridiculous

chainéd buns

of prim 7th St. Lolitas

 

Primas darting between heavy legs

I push aside the irritating battens

sickly hot pink bulbs

about to fall from wire trees

Peeping out from behind tattered wings,

I consider Aurora’s paradox:

One rose may be lovelier than 20.

there she is

flirting with a sentimental stage hand

he’s under the influence

of her despotic lashes

 

Apotheosizing stage light

of post-apocalyptic pixies!

igniting dark matter

in rounds of proscenium ecstasy

pristine bodies reforming

To dance

is to surrender

to the primal

heart-beat

of the universe.

Blackout.

 

Damn fog machines back stage are on a rampage again

(must be the ghost)

can’t see a thing but her eyes

and that unapologetic rouge

glowing red and cackling in the dark

 

Encore

 

What misery it is to return to the land of mortals!

after the show

an understudy can be seen

in the middle of the stage

as if compelled by the ghost light

cradling her pointe shoes

and singing

“I want to live in a music box. I want to live in a music box.”

 

 

 

Angel of Death Poem

 

I am the angel of death

that flies down the street

and spits directly into your mouth

 

What did you see when you lifted the black veil on my beanie?

certainly not my face

everyone sees something

different

It takes years to see someone’s face

like waiting for something to come to the surface of the water

You ask for too much too soon.

 

a gray cat let us in the gate

and I could tell you understood

the principle of synchronicity

you kissed me in the pool

and my blue lipstick left marks all over you like bruises

 

I was on the verge of telling you

about death

it’s completely against the rules of course

but youth delights youth

and I had never done this before

being the angel of death and all

Then my glass spilt.

I guess I wasn’t meant to say

those who see omens

see twice as much-

don’t worry about the cat

angels can’t love either

 

We were sitting back to back and I could feel your heart

beating violently through my chest

You told me you do this for other girls

I’d rather not have a heartbeat

both are legitimate responses to reality

 

Death, like love, is groping for a hand in the darkness.

As Death, I always find the hand.

Lovers seldom do.

 

The clock says 12:13 again

I’ll clean the black feathers out of my car eventually

 

 

 

Megan Thompson is originally from Las Vegas, Nevada where she completed her BA in Philosophy. She currently resides in San Francisco where she is pursuing her MA in creative writing.