MEDEA SINSATION

Ignorance of a Side

 

I.

I love you, I tell you

But you couldn’t tell before?

 

My heart pummeled each sense;

My affection was confessed.

What other signs need be made;

Was I not myself desire?

Am I not endearing in need—

In need

Of you?

 

I’ll abstain but I’ll remain further

Until you say:

“You, you loved me?”

 

II.

In case you never did, do it now

You’ll live the regrets on the way home

And I won’t be there.

 

I like that you are polite, but a question hurts little

A question is but a question

But you don’t, delicately, ask.

 

Your cowardice draws you near

Nearer and dearer

Perhaps skip the question then

Before we part.

 

Clever Pandora

 

Bleak in a beaker, corked and screwed

Give me the Bunsen burner, let us torch this bitch

Boyle’s Law: under pressure, we expand

Feel the humdrum all around, see the shards splayed out bleak

In a beaker blasted broken

I am cleverer Pandora to eradicate the evil

Swim, live breathe it nonchalant

And you, Man, gasp as at fault mine, an infamy

Trace my limbs in the miasma while I yet last

At last rid, of the bleak and the mires lonely

 

Candids

 

I read the glossy, or

at least I read the headline

“So-and-So You-Wouldn’t-Believe”

could’ve been Queen Elizabeth

but how should I recall?

There are so, so many names that get plastered on the wall.

 

The glossy’s pictures are what I come for

schaudenfreude and envy are nothing to me

Validate JFK or Celine Dion

not anymore—I want the wrong side of Cher’s face

unblissful Michael Jackson

saints don’t have to be holy,

just inhuman

Popular forever, maybe pitiable

 

St. Sebastian’s votive flickers at an altar

Kept alight all night

Not because I love him, this homotextual arrow-pierced martyr

a lonesome moth needs in the night a light

to aspire toward Heaven

 

impressions opine sanctity

 

Blanche and I

 

Les petites morts, they aren’t so hard

But, she says, the dying is a sin to behold

 

It breaks you

It makes you

In classes they theorize about it, but Blanche and I

Go to the Pink Flamingo

we ditch classes for the boys

we are rhinestones, and want the truth velvet

we wrap ourselves in curtains

we remember the BANG like it sounded

Blanche and I are magic, foundation and lipstick

And in the end, there is always the kindness of strangers.

 

Take me away she says

Take me away from myself,

But Blanche I say, you won’t be taken alive

Velvet woods aren’t welcome!

They’ll scribble new names for us that grind your favorite students’ chalkboards

Sanitarium. Sanitize.

Not magic, realism, a waiting predators’ bedlam.

 

POP

 

Perfectly pretty people

Overcome by the influence of what’s it

Pictured in the cinema, silver, technicolor, visible.

 

The streamline set of the stage:

What’s-her-name, she waltzes right in out of the elevator

with A cold slim pistol

One discharge

Marilyn stacked on Marilyn Monroe, a stack of Marilyn Monroe, bleeds no blood

And Andy thinks, that’s business for you

his “Shot Marilyn” sells like naughty piercing

Indulgence for the same men in hard silk boxers

 

The first superstar, Girl of the Year

Deranged, already dead in mink

Sing “Like A Rolling Stone,” Bob Dylan

Where perfect pretty people end up at the end of the reel

 

Bad Music (for Lenore)

 

Thought you were safe, didn’t you

Til pop came to you.

 

Hymnal was the night

‘Til the pop came to you

The angels’ wings cried sooted feathers

The strings broke a synthesized jag

Slicing immortality the moment

The moment Lenore threw on the bed

Evermore memory Rolling Stone

The rock winded a bubble

Once pop came to you.

She old Lenore heaved a blue sigh

She Lenore scatted her grave

She rapped on Heaven’s Gate

Turned to gyrate an enflamed electro

You needed her didn’t you

‘Til the pop came to you.

 

Unhurried Tortoise

 

The stoplight will change again

I’m not expectant of reward where I go

In a moment I’ll rebegin

I savor what green grows

There are many lights to change yet

How many, I’ll let you know

 

skyf

There is always a binary, two extremes. The truth is somewhere between.

MEDEA don’t kill your children,

Just

Dreg your ashes on the floor

Sane or distract? Real or mythic? I’m somewhere betwixt these concepts.

In kneading the wind, I finally find my sanity. My psychotherapist could never have dreamed my truth so weird; in her counseling upon the binary, neither could I—though, in retrospect, discovering my own witchy gender identity could not have been buried so deep beneath my delusion. I am privileged this way: as a bipolar schizoaffective I indulge intoxicated by flights from reality, delusion. Coming into my own, I soar upon delusion into truth, the maw of reality. Often, the wind obeys my summons, and I believe. Often, it does not, and I trust truth, that firm control is but another phallocentric delusion.

I have been calling upon the wind to change since I was 21, when I dropped out of Grinnell College amid the tremors of psychotic fallout. The wind has finally lifted. When I submitted to Madwomen in the Attic some months ago, I was still moored in masculinity—male, but not “man.” Since, I have negotiated extremity… self-medication via marijuana, manic decisions beckoning ultimately constructive cognitive dissonance, conversation with my dear therapist heeded in the practice and abandoned summarily. I trust mediation and medication, but I am a weird, an alchemist, a barista and mixologist of kismet.

Advice is empowerment, but self-actualization is a trump suit to –realization. There is no certain recipe for the former, and there is little mutual exclusivity between the two. I am grateful for my support network (a clinical term), but it is the mad mistakes that I have made myself from which I have learned. It is the mad triumphs with which I identify. Madness is the better route for us; illness connotes negatively, it is contracted. But our character is reclamation from more mires than we know, beyond patriarchy and clinicism, not merely historic. Our battles begin within ourselves.

My distant ancestor George Gordon, Lord Byron, was an incestuous queer wildman: epithetically, “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” We are the artists of our time too, painted mad, Jacksonianly bad, and, yes, dangerous to know. Moreover, we are dangerous to love. I am not a complete character. Neither are you. But the truth is, we are safe to know love, that dangerous beast, and just as dangerous as our mounting self-knowledge. Dispense with sanitized cliché, your madness is your very own.

That is magic.

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Medea Sinsation, pic

Medea Sinsation is a dabbler, a dilettante, and a devil. Medea would be another witch, Medea another comedian. But the Medea before you, assembles assemblage, Tarot, verse, and debatably prose. At 26, she lives in 29 Palms, CA, USA, where she can occasionally be found reading for post-grunge band OURS PAST.

As Giovanni Garcia, she has published locally with Cholla Needles Magazine Space Cowboy Books (The Inflatable Catechism, 2016); nonlocally, The Platform Review.

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