Monday, August 7, 2017

picture book.

this girl's name is white, five years old, from the suburbs, where all the houses are uncomfortably close to one another. the houses chant, taunt, etc., "girl you'll still be a virgin even after you fuck a million guys."
house is looked in on but she don't care- too young to be rewired by paranoia. got "circe" tattooed on her ass. got "animal mother" buzzed into her hair.
too young for the news, computer, or thinking money is anything other than stupid. gets all angry at herself 'kuz she dunno how to pay attention, or how to retain information, unless it's the kind picture books are made of. all she wants anymore is picture books...she knows that's where god is at.

it's dark out and she's awake. the animal, cute friendly jaguar, whose eyes she sees through is asleep. these are his dreams in which he gets to know her, which is weird.

this is the kinda girl you'd expect to never figure out potty training even though she wasn't a crack baby (per se).
girl that you laugh at because incidentally exposing failure (inhibition isn't her forte) is her ultimate truth. everyone has a shitty concept of failure except her.

she looks like meat with hair on it and is that. if you drew her, that's what you'd make of your drawing. example: she talk about sex. she fucks everyone very subtly. does she mean to? (bitch ya know ya mean to.) "i'm a goddess of fertility. of course i fuck everyone."

she's a brat, at the end of the day. to some, this means she's abusive. (whatever this means is missing.)

kinda girl that, while sitting on a toilet, gets distracted, and presents either breast to an imaginary friend coming down from the heavens. an old friend that isn't real anymore. long hair envelopes her- this is spider choosing her, spinning her in his web, saying shit like, "i've got an act of love for ya." she likes spiders like she likes doggies (meaning a LOT).

"i love you, here, lemme show you," she says to him. they both take off their glasses to see that they're really seein'. as if they're preparing for sex.

she's singing to him about giving him her milk like a lullaby, except nothing comes out of her nipples. listen: this isn't because of him. just somethin' she wasn't ever taught how to do. therefore, she will never be able to give him life, and he will not be able to serve as her reflection. this is somehow how she was taught to communicate and is the only thing she cares about. he's mad, throwin' a tantrum, but he wouldn't be if he would just open his eyes and see something outside of himself. he's see she's a lovely young lady. if he made it to that point he would just know.

girl isn't afraid of going crazy. isn't afraid of death, rape, or selling out. likes high places, the ocean- there are accolades attached to getting to know these things. she's pregnant with wondering if, since she's so unafraid of things that seem authentic to her, if it's really fear she feels in regards to anything else. maybe she just feels authenticity is getting confounded and we're letting it.

"just wait momentarily," she says to mr. spider, about her nipples not producing milk. "it's just been a while is all. i just need to warm up. gonna get this thing to work." she's still bein' spun in his web though it's more like being embraced by heaven. he's still there with her acting like he's not spinnin' her in his web.

then she, or, let's be real, i, have a dream in which i pull down my diaper in which a stillborn bird, so serene, is bloodied, is sayin' "mama" on repeat. at this moment, i begin looking up schizophrenia symptoms on the internet, trying to fit into them, like i'm trying to fit into clothes that are too tight. this is what i'm hungrier for- sickness. since sickness is fucked up the only way to make sense of it is to make it become everything about you. i'm takin' my clothes off. i'm givin' all my stuff away and hoarding the organs of other animals into my body, late at night, when i'm alone. extra stomachs so that i'm a peace-loving bull. zillions of hearts so that i don't know whose pet frog i am.

this is what sex is like when you're unsure of it. and you have a daughter from it, always.

spider, ya didn't need to try to persuade me into your embrace, but ya did anyway 'kuz you was havin' fun. you said shit to me like, my essence was something lunar, therefore my shadow don't exist. thereafter, ya painted me with your silvery, glittering come, so that i could move forward in armor. with their hella obsidian vibes, lookin' at myself in your zillions of eyes was something like scrying- i felt so small (and ugly, obvs) about myself next to you. being human is the most fucked up thing. at that moment, you scurried away, presumably back into the linen closet.

maybe the jaguar woke up, so i had to continue without magick, unless i was gonna cure myself with my addictions.

plants die of frost and butterflies fly south: winter is comin', when we must zero in on hunting, thinking only of meat. and i can't wait to be suitable again- wanna see the cold make sense, and to see things how i feel them. wanna feel okay with noticing distance before anything else. i hate to say this, but i wanna see other people experience this, too, so i feel a little less anomalous about myself.

btw, i'm still coated with come. after sittin' around for forever, refusing to bathe, i turned white. i got used to feeling like i was wearing a full-body cast. the absence of color became me, some rationalizing part of me said.

my name is selene. nobody knows they're prayin' to me like how they do.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

nanny nanny poo poo.

neighbor boys versus neighborhood girls, is where this duet is at:

i could die if i wanna is how serious my illness is. you can't picture it and/or
you're just jealous is all,

jealllllooouuuuuus.

PSA no. two: my havin' a serious illness has nothing to do with me not doing my homework. just
that i don't know how to wrap my head around the

whole having to do homework thing:
anyway, i don't know how to read and instructions are stupid,
ugly bozo.

i only think in people so i'm only gonna talk about that
and only when i wanna

is how serious my illness is, a lot like PTSD.

let me introduce you to the army i've raised
in my head, conglomerate

of all the people
whose acceptance i'm desperate for (golden rule: sharks don't sleep).

here are the people that i am a matriarch of:
01. correct answer: b
02. correct answer: a
03. correct answer: d, all of the above
04. only correct answers;

do you see? see? look. it's me, the shaman/the anarchist, with whom
ya play jump rope

(the game at which
it doesn't matter if ya suck.
)

i have real authority, so i'm instructing you,
and it's not
uncomfortable for me: i tell ya, i'm generating
awareness. open your mind. look.

if you knew that i can't look at things 'kuz
it hurts, you'd recognize me as resilient
and wonder why
i'm not out-and-out violent.

look
you're stupid
no you're stupid, so look
la la la la
look
i'm not looking i can't hear you
look
look
i'm sayin' la la la la la la la la la though as in, "nah."
look
you're not looking really like you claim to be doing
look
look
i'm being persistent: look
look
la
look
i said, "la"
look
la

we shouldn't be doing this la la la la
i'm not listening la la la la
we shouldn't be doing this la la

la
la

i'm not listening gimme ya drrty cunt

we shouldn't be doing this
is the name of my sweetheart

i'm not listenin'
too ready for ya drrty cunt

always come back to rape don't it
is the name of my chaos' heart

Friday, July 7, 2017

mother me kindly.

enter, enter rejection mind.
beyond your gates i am glacial i am safe.
your nectar my mouth, hive.

i'm at a loss and i don't care. ruling out the performance art i do
in which i make teddy bears out to be the bad guys, as i'm too old
to admit they still mother me kindly, yet too ashamed

to admit i don't play pretend with them anymore.

memory, or guardian, i think it's you

that has something to do with this. i have news
i'd like to know your response to. (is it one protective?)

i'm getting abused again. huge chunks of me feel younger
than ever. i look back and think, you know, that was abuse then, and

i can validate that.

no.

if i was president, here's what i'd abolish, for you: just no more of any of your crutches. that's to say: no more money. no more time. no more bitching and
moaning. no more
talking about donald trump- i miss george bush. no more being a bad listener.

no more being dumber than me. no more machismo. i'm embarrassed to have
anything to do with it. it makes me feel
like i can't be an anarchist.
no more internet addiction (that one goes without saying).

and the rules for myself:
number one: addiction is always allowed.
however: no more bra, no more underwear, no more makeup

no more white skin (it makes me a tourist),
no more meat, no more sugar

no more waste except
the disappearing kind (i was never a good enough anorexic), gotta

do me like my hair's on fire.

whatever abuse has to offer me: no. i can't believe
i have to keep learning from this.

i am rejection mind.
it is possible to be safe without power this way.
nectar, mouth, hive.

the ferryman.

message me
on facebook. the format
is flexible. all it
requires is
you lie to, or, come on
me
and all
the twelve year old girls

and only
twelve year old girls.

don't stop, don't stop

so becoming
in our fear of
drawing attention
to our inadequacies

which is
everything
about us
('til you)

me and all my friends

be studyin' porn
to see
how we're supposed to be
though not gettin' it

we be suppressing
our sneezes
before
i guide them into
your man cave

where it is that
we let ourselves be:

we start talking about cock
and only cock
for the rest of our lives

until you
cheat on me with them- part of
the process. betrayal
is when we
become women.

don't stop, don't stop

an example of what
you'd wanna message
them...

it'd go something like,
"haha lol [girl's name], that was
a really funny joke
you just said, you know

i had a real rough day
and you made me feel better

i'll bet you're a princess

i'll be you're the one
meant to cure my disease"

handsome prince, handsome prince

you just gotta be
twelve in spirit
is all it takes

and when
we're doing it

and i hear me working on
convincing myself

that you're turning
from a toad to
a prince

and not
the other way
around

i'll be sayin',

"where's that ribbit, ribbit
comin' from
"

all's i want
is for you to reply,

"it'll only take a minute
for me to kick that habit

it's something
we can laugh at

and even
turn into something
sexy
"

this'll be
the only caveat

to our
delight, dare i
imply, our
happily
ever after

and when
i'm a star
which is what
you're giving me the chance to be

my name'll be something like
that of
the ghost's

that's wandering
inside me, it's copying

the shape

of your dick

and, unlike you, has
everything to do with
denying light

my hope, my
disease

this things
only spell on me
is determining

the direction
of my future

"well i'mma be
carryin' cancer cells," is what

i say to it, "i'mma be kind and
well known
for all
of humanity,"

pretty, pretty princess

believin'
in pink
believin'
pink and secrecy
are the same thing

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

survey says.

"but why was sitting, enjoying nature, or something like it, better than creating some representation of it? i never thought that way about it in the past, when it was a disposable camera, or an easel and watercolors.
"

Monday, July 3, 2017

i want
for what's gonna kill me

to be my suffering
from the overload
of artificiality

so that people
stop to consider
maybe that's actually a thing.

i don't really give a fuck
if they take action
because they look stupid
(like they're throwing tantrums
that've been done before
)
doing that, too

unless parts of my body
are thrown into the windows
of the UN

or other world rulers
like that

by my brethren
as they shout,
"how come you fucked her,
but not me?
"

that's fucking new.

how i survive now
is exactly how i survived
in jungles

except here
i can't even.

i'm in jail here. luxury
is somehow a jail, and somehow

nobody knows
how to feel it just like that.

this is so much
of what unconscious content
is comprised of.

so we need it
so that we have hope.

when she's fetal
inside our bodies
and we're fetal
inside hers, at a moment when
we're hungry
but can't do anything
about it,

that's when
we say,

come forward

nature is fine
without manipulation
and i'm ready
to have a word with her
as is.

this is the only spell
that needs
to come true.
been kissing god's ass
for forever

and this is not just pathetic
it's also childhood shit
so this is definitely torture.

while my parents
were getting a divorce, the third

entity, which was
their real child: the sum of
the two of them
had died in an airplane crash

with me
and since there was only us

only i could see
identify
taste
smell
touch
eat it

and this consuming
caused it to come back to life
in me.

sudden cancer half-ate it
without bothering me:
we was jumped
by several guys at once

being unable
to distinguish

one
from the other

all of their masks scared me so i
shit everywhere.

and it stayed that way
forever.

there are no cures
except fantasizing

that there are: guys

i'm too shy to ask out
fucking me.

sound of a balloon popping. of a recorder. my dog
panting as he guards me. cancelling field trips. teeth
falling out in dreams. symptoms
not matching up with shit the internet says
are symptoms. calling myself

a child-woman. a shaman. calling
meditation meditation.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

division into continents was
exciting, meaning, a nervous
reaction

centered around hope.

my response surely reveals i'm an unrepentant snob. this is

a way to give myself control: change like this is a fuck up not mine
and i'm the only one reacting uniquely to it.

if she warms up (they say
about me)

we suppose she's a volcano

she'll be warm, right? volcanoes
are always warm?
and she might get

even warmer
as in
warming up to us

becoming an equal
someone

we must listen to
and fuck is she wise

let's rearrange its frailties
by callin' em out
for their strengths

(mister potato hed)

get her
to explode

provoking god to come 'ere
come 'ere and discover us

recognize we're yours
we feel your feathers touch
our faces, astronomical owl
as you gather us

making heaven an actual thing

(shoes, eyes, smiling mouth, and hat; old school actual potato)

except me.
my roots
cannot be dismantled.

i'mma say: i am more than
my grasping
to anything soft, more than

my desperation, my rehearsing
what would happen if abandoned.

i want you to fuck me so bad (i.e., really wanting),

i am being wanting
to be equalized
in the eyes of others. (i'm turning into a person

you
shouldn't of done this to me
)

i devote to
deities

while looking

over my shoulder, to see
if passion gained
from suffering, the number one deity,

will happen to be around.

wanna ask it why the
fuck she don't care about
me and

when the fuck am
i gonna transcend, how
come i just have to roll with
the punches, replaying

resilience over and
over.

can i

show you my hair and show it to others

without losing respect? is that the kinda sacrifice you need from me?
to ask that is to put it out there

that i'm open to

the possibility of feeling
horrified

when i'm not- no, not unless

i'm itching to go crazy. i've put out
fire, or, my happiness,
many times before. shaved my head for

robes, as a way to tell you
i appropriate in ways responsive

to the face of sacredness

constantly shifting for me.

but the heart of this is really: i
appropriate through my

suspecting that you are missing-

i'm surrounded by faeries, they're
existing for me in ways

i'm not okay with. they bite me in my sleep.
that's their only language.
i am their mother.

my nipples drag along the ground.

my purpose in life
is to be in charge of villains.

my faith is irrelevant.

i look over my shoulder, suspecting
i can change that from being true.

fetish: a duet.

i fuck you. ain't no shame.
shame is the one thing i was raised without
a sense of.

you know who you are. no need to name names.

you askin' me how i sleep at night. well....it's the high of
being on a platform like the one i got. it's like...like, the lividest, hottest

sex, the kind you continue thinking of even when
your wife and kids are around...like, it doesn't even matter to me
that i'm "ugly" or whatever.

"tell me i'm nice," is what i pull you in to say, going for

a hook so that you listen to me. instead, i freeze, not because

i'm a cold fish, but because my mind
is escaping the moment, as you

rape me, your dick feeling like
loose shit contained by the thin skin of sausage,

webcams everywhere, daddy.

destruction must have a  rite of passage we're
presented in our formative years
and
this must be it, like that dream i had when

osama bin laden captured me and other kids. favoring me,
he spared me from his murdering me

and granted me paradise, his
child in me.

"this birth is not my light," i said. "i must
find a way to be okay

with murdering my own child."

which didn't happen.

a pet
births herself from my chest, of all places. my heart probably
turning into something new.

i lift my
shirt. pet stacey comes out,

the girl that's always gonna be shy. she
admits she wants to learn how to suckle

like how my brothers did when
their lives weren't spared. slut.
her real name is iraq

learning it wants to fit in
mostly because
it's not allowed.