LOUDSPEAKER:: A Crown of Sonnets by Caelan Ernest

Writing

Jul 7

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WUSSY is proud to present poetry by Caelan Ernest.
If you would like to send in a writing submission, please contact Nicholas Goodly.

violent nebulae glow up the wasteland!

violent nebulae glow up the wasteland!
we enter thru the boooom room—its haptic
noise stitches together a fierce light trick...
then static... then apartment flip. handstand!
the crown molding chips underneath the man.
here we are again! a guillotine glitch.
head hung low—a sever in the nexus;
royal blood spilt heavy across the strands.
slick my full head of hair back with the dye.
tell me what it was like being pretty.
just kidding. no, really! i’m so litty
from this latex dominatrix moment.
i’m just a piece of plastic. he laughs. i
understand. i guess we’re just not ‘there’ yet.

understand. i guess we’re just not ‘there’ yet
cause i’m here. this bad world vacant except
for the bioluminescent plankton
dancing in their viscous goop pool net.
the kids call it a cultural reset
but this is nothing new. no real stasis.
add the apocalypse boss on linkedin
& wait patient til he accepts the request.
is this what it’s like to be pretty, with
a bounty of top notch booty still form
-ing? we flip fuck til rosebud til the storm
rains on what’s blooming. trust me, i’ll show you
even dys-topia can be verdant—
fake all future perfects til they come true.

fake all future perfects til they come true
as if added pressure constellated
anything, ever. i’m dead-star faded;
inebriated on orion’s dew.
ring out... ring out... my voice coming thru
the timeline. underrated. big fated
energy! i’m so insatiated
i bottle pink wavelengths in the corkscrew
for later to mutate my limelight.
it’s not a party, it’s just show business—
call it doomsday impulsiveness! witness
my transformation. my provocation
is polynomial & bright. i’ll bite...
the figure of speech is a temptation.

the figure of speech is a temptation
til it’s spoken, but my mouthbox broken.
the mechanic piece my rapture token;
a oneway ticket to heaven station!
just kidding, it’s not really vacation
season. my earthly gucci is frozen
& he knows it! i just want him to stroke it—
my couture gender transfiguration,
but lately he’s in no mood to invent.
back on a dying planet my rent’s due.
i was never me when i was with you—
disagreeable aways & unpleasant.
he got off on his malicious intent;
i get to revel in my resentment.

i get to revel in my resentment;
my pic only got ten likes on insta-
gram! i need your help proving i exist.
inflict me with your cursor sentiments;
blow out my body into dark fragments.
construct me anew. sparkling & blissed.
i think i changed when he held down my wrist.
his absence burns like a rabbit fucking
its own hind legs into oblivion.
Bunny can no longer see her silhouette
in the smoke; her mirror doesn’t reflect.
her gaudy image is an optic stretch
over the storm morning’s vermillion.
i body slam into the day like death.

i body slam into the day like death
drop. PLOP! i land hard in acid ocean.
the firm tuck & lift keeps things from motion.
what can i say? i’m just a wreck obsessed
girl; ice on my wrist & attitude drenched!
Bunny hops into the night & causes commotion;
all she ever wanted was the world’s devotion
but her love song beats like a nuclear threat,
wailing like sirens everywhere she goes.
her little whiskers devastate everything
they touch, so i prepare for mass extinction
by putting on my mugler mourning suit.
find me beneath the ground hellbound & low—
my demon self gone big & destitute.

my demon self gone big & destitute
as i prepare for tonight’s big crowning.
the crowd’s howl is the gong sounding
off this opulent gather disaster
as Bunny makes her arrival. cadaver
heavy in her hands. i hear the shouting—
the hounds know the nights i’ve spent recounting
my resentments. now the wrath takes matter
in the form of a crown, throne & scepter.
i’m a glowing doula to these specters
in their fierce unrest. do you understand?
hear me, benevolent god. i call down
violent nebulae, glow up the wasteland!

—

Caelan Ernest is a poet, performer, and thingamajig living in Brooklyn, NY. Their work considers seriality as a model to explore how digital topias allow the queer body to undergo multiple puberties. They hold an MFA in Writing from Pratt Institute. They are Director of Publicity at Nightboat Books. Hit them (and their cat named Salad) up on social media: @transputation.

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