TWO POEMS by M.V. RIASANOVSKY
stink bugs
it’s time for the funeral — the funeral for the stink bugs in my apartment
it’s time for the moon to cum <3
cum all over us in the dark
it’s not time for apologies
there was that apology party for years fucking ourselves silly with sorries
no honestly! i am no longer sorry when i wear the balaclava and burn
down a walmart or whatever
i’m serious y’all
my grievances are with my ““family of origin””
i don’t owe any man who has ever harmed me Appollogyyy
i’m super fucking serious
when my heart flows through the life of the earth and my blood is mingled
with the dirt and ether, when i lay in
the grass and breathe in something delightful and forgetting
i breathe in your shampoo and your scent and the queer
goopy lust;;; there’s a decadence in our dyke-y little resistance
but now is a funeral for the bugs that only died for trying to live
their dried up carcasses adorned in cobwebs
when i die pls cover me in cobwebs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
when i die don’t let my dad come to the funeral xxxxxxxxxxx
when i die bury me where a tree can grow, where sunlight permeates land that is loved
where someone can sit in its leafy shade;;; years from now
holding hands with someone they owe no apologies for loving
warming the earth by digging their nails in the dirt while
getting the most orgasmic head they’ve ever received
please, fuck under the tree of my ashes
smell the salt in your tears as you weep
for each little creature entangled in harmful relations,,,,,,,
removing the snares and thorns, building something more beautiful
embalmed in tenderness, without apology
if you don't bury your guns you can't grow a gun tree [i say this and everyone laughs because they're drunk]
(best viewed on desktop)
the admission tickets are live
quick kill everything
kill everything quickly
killingly every the quick thing
soft grasses and the real
housewives of beverly hills
antique stores and the quaker oats guy
my ceiling fan is broken and i'm
not waiting for them to apologize
i've reclaimed my whole entire life
the meaty, nasty fuckery of my life
it's all mine baby and you can't
take that shit away from me
the lull of the tides on the shore
and the k hole we find ourselves in
watching king of the hill edits online
everyone tells stories about
where all the guns are buried
and the friend that died
and i think about my friend
that died too we were in
high school art class together
his hair was auburn and
he wrote poems drew
anarchy on the desks
before he was murdered
at sixteen in his house
i don't know if their friend
wrote poems but we're all
around a fire or something
or we're just laughing at
reruns of the real housewives
of beverly hills wondering
if their dysfunction supersedes our own
supernovas and the quarter you
have to use to get a shopping cart
at aldi everyone over
the age of forty calls it krogerSSSS
with an s at the end which i like better
don't get self conscious about it babe
we're all hot and shoplifting from
the grocery store anyways
crime doesn't need an age limit!!!!
when i am ninety years old
i hope i still steal everything
that isn't nailed down
and that i feel beautiful and
gorgeous and queer and trans they should
put me on the oatmeal box
and sing me songs about the
insanely cool way i am still alive
even though i don't often want to be
that takes a lot of courage tbh
that takes a lot of, like, idk, determination?
be alive i whisper to my belly and brain
and the housewives and my friend and
their friend who died
to all the guns that were buried
and all the bodies too
m.v. riasanovsky (they/them) is a nonbinary, queer, disabled, and autistic poet living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains in central Virginia. They have self-published several zines and have been part of DIY/alt-lit writing communities. They are a grant writer and are passionate about leftist movements.