Thursday, December 31, 2015

do you ever wonder the price your children will have to pay
for all that technology you've got there?

to a dark place which we must travel without direction.


lady asteroid from the only house you are safe under the rule of.

dear so-called IS.

i hope your assholes burn every time someone chooses to call you the "so-called" islamic state. as far as i know, your shit isn't islamic. it upsets me knowing our world has let its center swallow itself. furthermore, it upsets me knowing that it could've been prevented, but so many people have turned their backs from caring. they are apathetic.
i'm not sure what it is you believe you represent, but you suck, and you're totally unclear to yourself. you're the most insecure people around is what's up, if you ask me. you're phobic of your identities, so you kill people over it. that's not going to make you feel better.
i don't know how i'm to accept you, to respect you as something "in the picture". it's disgracing and i'm disgusted. i, personally, have a hard time not turning my back on you, so-called IS.
i feel mad that so many media outlets give you the attention that is your cause, as if there aren't other things happening in the world, and to the world.
and i want you to know as well that, like, you're a cult. you know that, right? you're probably an umbrella cult of many cults. your cult is a cult just like the stuff you say you're against. you hate yourself in your disconnect from the world we're in. you're indoctrinated children with nothing else to do but to hope to be immortalized for five secs. pathetic if you don't let it pass.

whoever you are, anyway- without the online accounts. who are you? either a couple of sad people or one fuck of a sorry gun. not rebels. not revolutionaries. not cool people. you do not rule the world. and you certainly do not rule me. i refuse to digest bullshit. if i am fed it, it's coming right back out. there's a lot i'm going to have to continue to rebel against.

Monday, December 28, 2015

although i'm sure anhedonia is just as old as the following.

i believe jobs are a societal infection.

i believe another societal infection is a stigma. it's all the widespread stuff i mean when i say "social infection". it's what's made of the same stuff people say heroin is- but it's worse than heroin. without it, you're incomplete. i mean like, really really. most of you die as a result of committing the one crime- catching this infection. the devil is in you, child. i see you. i dislike seeing you.

a couple of people throughout history have proven they've immunity to the infection just like me.

i was reading about marquis de sade in a fancy book. i knew i'd be able to read on if it was about him. i really like that he dared to push boundaries and that he had a lot of sex or something. i like that if he insisted that if he believed a way, than, simply, there was this way, so fuck you, because your way sucks. i like people that push for their values, and are intimate with their values. i like that i'd fuck him though only if he isn't ugly as fuck, which he probably was because jesus the hedonism, but there's really no telling, so i'm not really imagining his face right now. not so into the lecherous behavior. and yeah, that him and her grandpa hair that was really in for a few centuries there is embarrassing. but he was probably real and stuff. he was just corresponding to what he believed in.
the truth is he was a genetic mutation, not one anything weird. it was a fairy tale.
once there was a person that was in jail feeling like shit. because it had been ripped to shreds on several occasions, it one day died in the very old institution it happened to be in.
really believing he's the anti-christ is another close-minded opinion. like all opinions. opinions are the eyes we don't need, and have in order to see through culture- the motherfucker i'm proud to not shut-up about. but de sade- he was the rest of us, and he thought it was fucked up we get treated according to ridiculous biases that reveal the cracks and holes and discrepancies in culture. to get messed up in sugarcoated whitewashed bullshit.
de sade lived according to how he believed, meaning, effortlessly. he destroyed and destroyed, because one must destroy all but desire, and can do so simply by giving into all desires, until there was nothing left to destroy. de sade had destroyed himself. but also, consider his doing so possibly liberated a component of god from his "personal cell" and was probably a medium for some very foreign aura. there are so many of them. we are all mediums. it has nothing to do with social status or class or having a lust for crime and fucking. it is indiscriminate.

paroxysm of realization. 01. 02.

brother thought aloud, with poignance, 'the one question, it seems conclusively, that i have for nature is, "am i gonna get in trouble for not doing my homework?"'

elder sister replied, 'i just want to say to all my teachers that sucked, "ha ha the literature i read is probably denser than the literature you read. my intellectuality towers over yours and that makes me feel a little cool, a little libertine."'

Sunday, December 27, 2015

seduction for the organisms that speak through me.

lips, white. is your skin rose? is it too
champagne?
let me taste your champagne. allow me
bubbles.
let me peel
your petals. love me. love me.



Saturday, December 26, 2015

they multiply.

"oh, look mommy! look! look!" the golden book good-shoes pointed toward a group of older kids. "real anarchists!"

"anarchists?" her brother, mister touches his balloon with wonder, turned his head.

"anarchists!"

mommy was embittered with distaste. "don't you pay those kids any mind, not in the least."
mommy knew that the anarchists had had sex.

"system! system! system!" the anarchists approached.

mommies eyes widened with panic. "kids, be good kids, okay?"
she looked toward the oncoming anarchists. "i'll come back for you." she pat her two kids on their heads before making a mad dash to a big empty house down the road.

the crowd engulfed mommies two kids with forks and knives. they emerge, ten years later, with their own forks and knives, battered like sharks. these are their battle scars they wear. "system!"

oh dear!

mr self destruct.

hi; i live in a park- central park- in the big city, under a bench. ummm you don't want to be here at night. that's when i wear camouflage and carry around this amazing machine gun i totally deserve, in order to avoid the total danger i'm in. organized crime and drug dealing. the type of stuff that will hush-hush your ass through history in one bite. politics be.
there's a dog hair of wisdom left still in my noodle...there are always trains arriving and departing. you never know where the air is to depart next. and so what. we too are passing with it.

i conjure up whatever motivation is supposed to look like by somehow eventually picturing an ultimate goal without placing distance being myself and itself. this is my cause:
i'm often very concerned that the people are beginning to weigh down, that everything about them is bearing this solidity, i mean, even just reflections in water. i'm afraid they'll get so heavy, like, they'll turn into statues, and they will drop beyond their threshold of gravity with the estimated force of an airstrike. on top of that, there will be earthquakes everywhere.

i want to know what i need to do in order to prevent this entirely. my name is airstrike.

my parents kicked me out, in jersey. like, south jersey. i kept winding up back and forth out of i-don't-know-wheres. for like, a while. it's still happening. i've been all over the east coast.

i look at you with terror.

this one time it was like getting murdered, everything was like prostrating in the direction of this realization, "it's like i'm being murdered." often it sticks to everything i do. i survive this all the time. my survival instincts are unbelievable, but also i question how much i want to live really.
and then like, man, i always feel like i'm ready to be killed but i also want my life to be saved. both, at once. probably by a guy. what is with that?
i am a stone so i throw stones. skip 'em across ponds, during the day. the turtles tell me to scat. they have a mafia thing going on there.

under a tree i piss.
under a tree i get pissed. because emotions spark at random for me, is pretty much why. it was because of that time that really fucked me up. that time that it felt like i was practically being murdered. geez. why must i be given "murder" to my common vernacular?

have you ever re-felt that time when you felt like you were experiencing murder? it's out there, man.

the free country.

the future, today, is an infernal grey-out. jesus is plotting somewhere, thoroughly through his old grey eyes. this all has something to do with flat tires. the future has something to do with a threat of dishonor. inevitably, one hobbles.

i'm not counting on much change right now (not the kind of change i expect, anyway). it's status quo to numb out. to numb out is to make one’s self indestructible.
i. continents regaining unison after breaking apart.
i was born on an island- my bedroom- filled with stuffed animals. that chandelier that was here for most of my life was still there. i swung from the chandelier to the neck of a giraffe, delicately spinning a web.at one point, i kill to get a net to hang in the corner of my bedroom, one of those to gather stuffed animals in. it disappoints me. it's not how i expected it to be. it bores me. somehow, i believe, it has to do with me making mistakes.
nude in the jungle, i find myself swinging from vine to vine among enormous green leaves. the world is moving as fast as the clouds. i'm flat and uncolored. i have two beady eyes. but shamans visit me left and right.this has something to do with jumping from extremes to extremes, it'd later be translated into. possibly also with spiders. also, i'm either being chased by clarity or keeping myself in motion in order to preserve what clarity i do have.the jungle is alive, we all know. it is without time, without memory. my focus is so bent toward one thing- that next vine- that i don't know about anything else except superficially at most. this means my intelligence is wasting.
i extent my long arms for long enough a time toward the effect of literally starving.
ii. first world problems.
i search for the american dream. all i can really think of is norman rockwell paintings, how they're not really my thing. there's something that seems fake about them; transparent. i give a teacher an essay about this, how this is what is meant when people use the words “the american dream”. afterward, i stop searching- not because i failed my essay, but because i can't find anything else to do. i don’t know that there are walls everywhere blocking my view.once i viewed things without faces. now my face has been taken away, too.
nobody sees each other.
iii. drop your weapons.
choosing to wake up now, because i don't want to wet myself. that's a hassle. instead, i experience what's called a psychogenic seizure, the same stuff vincent van gogh was subjected to. i see finely cut tiny gems falling and shimmering toward my face, blinding me wherever the light hits them, and a guy rolling his eyes at me behind them. me doing things happens all the time. these are consequences of breaking boundaries i have, for punishing parts of myself.i look outside my window. it is the screen of a television set. dreams sell, but you never get them back again. pcp sells. stuff from hollywood sells, methamphetamine and sludge sell. the internet sells. people used to value secrecy. now we wish for voyeurs, we wish to be watched. yes. the internet sells more than anything.
i hate this funeral.
everyone is still alive, slowly moving, but alive, and yes, it does make a big difference. hair grows on these bodies, on my body, more than i'd expected. it's silver fairy tale hair. the rejection of society is silver fairy tale hair. there's only so much society the body can take before we reject it.society looks like what we've made up our minds about. stop signs. the rejection looks like what we see in one another. i see god now that i know so. these broken tears of god are what the dirt is unable to sop.i cradle my thanksgivings in my arms... i was into them when i bought them. i remember liking them in the moment. we have to vow to the moment- is there more than the moment? i remember the rush of buying stuff, the anxiety, the fear that i might not have the money for it. the view of myself from the security cameras.i take off my clothes because i don't need these. i might not need the grass under my feet but i sure as heck appreciate it. people of earth, make up your minds about what your belongings are, and whatever they are, take off your clothes no matter what. i'm about to see myself in you is why. every last one of you must undress in order for this to happen.
everything i have learned could be used in war, or if i were to find myself faced with a bull who was just held in captivity in a dark shit-hole for a week with his balls tied- i'd know how to run for my life. all other knowledge i reject, or fold into a tiny square and forget where i've put it.
i am this bull. sometimes i imagine myself in the dark space, going crazy in it for a week, not knowing anything about where i am. i feel this softness, this sensitivity that's going to leave my body if i have a say.
iv. domestic chores.
i have no choice but to work toward embracing an interpretation of reality, somehow, as hell is too expensive. it's been exhausting.from now on i spend my time judging the past- an empty scream; a hollywood-manufactured purpose. a purpose that will never be shared with me.
without worshiping music we're left to face the parts of us that we don't want to exist. we have to escape into the music.
v. i never pray. but i believe when i'm close to death i will pray.


let's hit the road. let's find ourselves able to walk around our neighborhoods as we're listening to music.

Friday, December 25, 2015

with big pockets of ash-rain, i think of reality. when i open my eyes i see an invisible space, quiet and breezeless; unconditional space.
me and my daughter, venus, walk across dead layers of the violence of the earth- televisions, chained refrigerators, newspaper, and copper, copper rolling across the skies of cotton fields.
no longer hiding beneath the sedimentary grounds, and it hasn't been that way for a while, the center of it all- of dharma, dare i elaborate-  stares at us all. nobody will ever stare back at it...
...thus human suffering is born.

boticelli reveals the human heart to itself, an unstruggling machine, that thing the gods lust after, the thing watching our conscious unsettlings.
venus divides her world. then, she rises, and we see her for her. she doesn't look like a pearl, but something about her makes it clear she is trying to come across as one. she's everything we live for and keep to ourselves. love is precious, pure innocent inviolable et cetera. pride, however, is there, too- as if she just bought her own body off the street.
venus was the center of her earth. today, she is the sun.

i am charmed by volcanos.

pompeii, year seventy something A.D. venus went to say something. she didn't know how to speak other then by spitting her tongue out. the volcano overseeing pompeii set itself on fire, admirably working itself through a rage. a cloud of pumice and so much ash exerted flexibility- flourished, bloomed itself into a world splitting open.
the people of pompeii went to grab their favorite things, things to be remembered by. rich people grabbed their jewelery and things of high money value. slaves grabbed nothing. they just ran and ran until they were underground.
shortly after the eruption of the mountain, who felt it all, people died. within a short amount of time, everyone else would die, too.

quote from a genius girl i know, "the easiest thing to judg is complacency."

venus, we have learned, is jealous. she wants to do what the people are up to. she also keeps an eye out because she's afraid of beimg hurt. these are the only times she speaks.
not being a mass of land prevents the possibility of integration.
think of the ocean and how you are seeing it. think of the sky, too.

bells are hitting me on my head. i'm not sure how i can deal with my split opinions on things. with my uneven body, how ever will i walk around maintaining a balance unless with a cane?
i am offended by my ideals. i think of flying ships and UFOs alike, dazzling wobbling things they be. and then i see them crashing into each other without realizing it. it's disappointing- what more can be said? they tore each other more painfully and more slowly than romeo and juliet.
my ideals unveiled something unromantic to me when they showed me this. and i'm happy to have seen it. i've learned that my ideals aren't ideas, movements. they're fixed, solid parts of a structure. so stuck they're halfway figmentations.

if you can't hear anything aside from fixed-pain, it doesn't mean the fixed-pain is a solution. it's an antibody. you see with it. you are not it. (i'm talking to me here.)
i have succeses. a. i'm not addicted to social media. b. i make candles. c. i take lovely care of animals. d. i like honesty. e. i like my makeup hair style of dress even when i'm all "i'm ugly" "or i'm ugly for my vanity".

the ocean grows.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

@all millenias.

this is the president of the chuck the elf on the shelf paramilitia. we hate the elf on the shelf, going around to the left hypothesizing over how we're going to make changes to america wait haha as if. america has to be willing to make changes to itself first but it's corrupted with denial.

please join my super tree house club-elf in the shelf needs to be deaded- which i am president of.
bring yourselves forward, my children.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

imploded black holes.

several continents, traveled

for good reasons, though some
hardly explored. some

i stalk. food. food.
food. i wonder
which color it is my skin has turned,

wherein my faith lies. they've muddied
yet they haven't in the least.
blackgrey
white swan- elusive swan- you are
my self on all days.

could the
veins-to-trace have some sort of
allegiance to themselves, and that's

why i insist on connecting them
to individual purposes? they are permitted

to flock. it distracts me from the pain-dance.
the selective mutism to
my pain, the rapist, the reaction

to emotions, who suck at singing.
i know that they are there.

couldn't it be

that this is some peculiar integration? what
would you expect? can't you notice my rebellion
against integration
that was there to begin with?

i've heard

that i don't integrate, that that's
my problem, but that i can-
but it has to be an epic
hunt for glory: it is difficult to access

a centering- however,

possible. i've heard one projects themselves
unto everything

and that's how they happen to see. the atmosphere

is unstable

when it is not on fire. we shall

have diamonds

Saturday, December 19, 2015

the hot touching the cold.

0. my body is growing longer; i'd like it to stop. i wrap my feet in plastic and dangle them into ice water- i had seen this on tv once. it makes you stop growing- stop falling. stop embarrassing yourself. i am ice dunked in water. i have to pretend this, because i want to be in porn one day; i want to be oversexed, yes, i really think this that directly. i want to be smeared in glow in the dark halloween body paint much more than anything else. it is the same as being a baby and spitting all your food out.
this, of course, is an affair that will ultimately rearrange itself into the bottom of my mind- the very end. the top of a glacier is only ten percent of it. it sticks out of the water. it is the facade, the paraded around face. that ten percent needs to be chipped away at. the part of the mind hardest to connect to. the stuff one might as well give up on.

0. the body grays and we've decided not to leave it: "i don't want anything anymore but i continue to have it." the sky goes a hot-mustard as the heat waves emitting from the body carry themselves across it. the sand i trudge into and out of is blue, a blue i'm ruining. this landscape's bottom-half has been telling me what i am. also, has been telling me "life is a journey". when a sunset tears clouds apart along the gentle sky it's because the end of the day destroys.
0. in the distance i see my future speeding up toward me- a really fast bird. suddenly, i am two different people: the one that thinks and me.

here we have collections of land from other parts of the world we never went to and will never go to because they have changed so much that they don't exist anymore. pangea is no longer. we cannot go back nor can we go forward. not today. we cannot give to the tall rise of the sun- maybe a few generations from now, but not any time soon. we do not know anything except what we do not need to know. we are becomers which is nice. i look forward to sinking into the degeneration i see around me.
now is not the time to focus on falling in love. there is no path for it. we must bulldoze.
also, this is not a time for teaching, for learning. and there are no secrets to be kept. we reverberate our secrets without words. everyone knows we all have secrets. we can see them inside the eyes of one another. i'm not surprised by anything anymore.
the thousand yard stare: this is a wound we are in, coolly talking inside itself. everything has been done before at this point except this wound healing itself entirely. we gather inside it, cajoling it to make sense of what it is experiencing. we must dissect it.

i am now taking pictures of the vandalism under a train overpass, vaguely aware that i'm really laying belly-up on a couch. "dirty ghetto stoners". i find myself becoming calmed; being explained. there was a time when everybody knew the music did not need to change. and then, the music changed. it went on to reflect an industry.
war is a sin is what i've learned in the drums of splendor. prostitution is what it is the harp strings fluttered across my skin. most of what we do is unnecessary. the world is starving.
i'm trying to practice this acceptance, this buddhism thing, because i so want to be that way: humbled by my suffering, even inspired by it. but i am angry. my acceptance thing happens because i think too much. it drives me somewhere, but not toward acceptance... i'm driven somewhere in which things are not how they are inside, and there's nothing i can really do about it.

i don't remember what you were doing but there was something about you, in that exact moment, that made you out to be a birch tree. road signs were everywhere- but too, you. a baby tree- a baby birch, white and wintery, upright, narrow...mythical, somehow. old birches aren't around anymore, they're ghosts. they still appear because they were the color ghosts are in the first place.
they're ghosts that didn't have funerals, so they're heavier than even us. their shadows are tales of honesty, of stillness. established truths. you can walk away from such, but when you go back, it'll still be there.
i know you are still there and i know that i am still fixated on you, an old portrait of a tree that was once very little, having only a few branches. i meditate on your growth, on a fantasized growth of us together. but i'm not a birch tree. i'm not even a tree. i'm a person that continues to walk around, else, baking in the sun, letting out fumes...blindly, i set myself on fire, thinking about how i knew you once. i do know something else. i know you are still rooted in the same spot- that you are out there, that you are not only out there but you are safe.

i claim my own transparency, but i'm beginning to see a shape surrounding my body- my sense of being in a universe- i'm seeing a little better, reflected in everything else along with my failures. something is beautiful and i grew ashamed of how beautiful it was. all the waters are polluted anyway. the ghosts who are given funerals have no where to go. we are all stuck here, surrounded by these waters drowning us.

when i see the sky spread milk frothing throughout the sea, my walls soften and speak- short-bursting particles of electricity listening to new rivers. current events. i know every molecule like how i know myself. the teeth of the heavier clouds sink slowly into the surface of the skin of first my walls, then deciding if i'm next.

0. when i think of your soul i think of mine.
when the revolution takes place, it's because we've all gone insane. we are leaves set on fire, crinkling ablaze. fire spreads- fire will be alright.

@postsecret; a nice the fuck you poem coupling.


*
i hate all of this holiday shit i've been up to recently. i feel a little too quick about myself, regarding telling the world what i want people to buy for me- and of course, i'm mostly doing this in my head- when i'm not buying for myself ahead of time. if i could get past this- because i want to be a human sacrifice for south sudan but i keep buying stuff and i stole a marker today, too. and a tea "infuser". and i'd been stealing tea bags but i've finished.
my four year old niece is a little consumerist whore.
economical needs being met require the self getting in the way of the self. cultural depression is the result of this.

i put my first advertisement out there, i mean, in the world, last night in a coffee shop i've been on and off, but mostly off, frequenting since i was a kid under the nom de guerre of "helen keller".
moods are the on-goings of one snake, one flexible colorful snake, abandoning former skins more importantly than eggs. after i doodled my little advertisement, complete with assballspenis and sperm coming out of a peach, i put it in the tiny plastic advertisement display thingie. a guy working comes along and asks what [we] did with the advertisement that was already there. there wasn't one. but someone was totally watching me shove my self-promotion into the display, which, in my head, feels extremely violating- also, i feel misunderstood, as i imagined being thought of as a rebel-rouser, when i was in fact adult-like. i died inside, or the universe did- it was black, starless- struggling to rise again throughout the following rounds of guess who. i don't think i have risen again- i don't think i died in the first place. i think a bit of me rotted off and this is what keeps happening. little stubs for the dung beetles.

edit: that pill is a dud. i can't find it anywhere on pill identifier.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

the fuck you poem.

i would like to alert you of a crime you continuously
commit, one
i seem unable to commit, not
that i hold interest in doing so. it is, in fact,
the only crime around. and this is it: you
standardize me. i am the weak link, the mistake you
can count on to be a mistake- the mistake
is a thing whose actions are overshadowed
by its state of being a mistake-
the pauper, the starving soul, that poor thing, this
reservoir that can take anything and make it
something bigger than what it turned out to be
to begin with, the tortured mind, the thing god punished.
and, of course,
i practically demand responsibility. this being said,
i will always be here for you to plank on, be it
for the transference of stress, or just to
look at me like i’m insane when i’m stressed from
my stress and the stress of everyone else weighing
on my shoulders,
you can count on me. you can even count on me
as the family emergency- stuff
in a hospital, being treated for nightmares
in a hospital, peeing itself in its sleep in
secrecy in a hospital, speaking openly and honestly
about stuff in a hospital when it counts, something
you don’t know what to do about;
a very obvious sorrow. woe
is the shitheaddy mistake who approached
the plummeting of their state with acceptance,
maturely admitting they’re in danger, they
need extra help. you know how brave that was of me?
fuck you for making a show of it to yourself
whether you’re so proud of me or not. i’m not
something more when i’m out of your field of vision.
this object is constant. i’m the same person, the one thing
that keeps your fucking attention other than
the television.
me? i do not stop thinking about my complicated
mental state- i mean, the abstract of it. but i do not
look at it as a mental illness, or “something being wrong”, or
any unappealing name you want to put on it
to cut me off from my truth, considering
we’re all fucking born skating across a foundation of
amorality in fact so fuck that and fuck you,
fuck you,
fuck you,
i want to burn myself right now.
to take my mind off of it, i scowl as i type
so somebody out there can perhaps hear me.
i’m doing this on the arm of your ugly couch-
you know, the one that i clean? like how i do
everything else?
but never
do i clean anything good enough? it’s true,
i don’t seem to have any potential
to match up to standards
despite my being standardized.
in this respect, indeed, i am hopeless, a lost
cause.
good.
i’d rather sit here and cut my arms open and rip my
arteries out until it’s my heart we’re
staring at here
and then burn it and shit the rest of whatever
remains of my body out
than to ever match up to the standards anyone holds,
these standards, this false universality of
standards,
such is my greatest fear.
i’m the poster child for relativity.
i want to burn myself, but i am proud of this one value.
i want to burn myself, i wonder, maybe because
i want to let my family know the extent to which
being identified as what feels like a very limiting role
and feeling kind of used for it- feeling very much so
unlike “myself”, whatever the self is supposed
to feel like. it’s clear to me
i cannot swallow this role. i cannot swallow
the scapegoatisms of it. i cannot
swallow the tracing back of everyone’s behaviors to mine. i cannot
stomach this fucking conflict. is it vomit? must be vomit.
i want my organs to stop working so i can stop digesting.
i have stopped eating before probably in order-
in hindsight- to express this.
listen to me, and i’m being dead serious you do this.
stop making me out to be a mentally ill
machine, is what i mean by all this. there’s a whole
person to me outside of this mentally-ill thing
it feels like is being done to me. you don’t
know anything about me, except
that i’m the type you have to walk on eggshells around
and that god loves me no
matter what. i hate to tell others what to do, but, for
peter’s sake, stop avoiding your problems just because
i too have problems, ones i deal with
head on. cut the crap with
mentally ill alliances and support for mentally ill
people out there and excellent resources
for the mentally ill and telling me to consider
places where the mentally ill are supposed to go.
i’m not going to any seminars
for the mentally ill to go attend in order
to be inspired because otherwise we’re all just
mentally ill and uninspired somehow. i’m not interested
in looking into my future
and the floodgates opening: “oh god no, in
the future, i will be shriveled down to the role
and the role alone.” another thing: i do not
in the least
want to
ever
look at people and think that if i was them,
i would’ve killed myself a long time ago.
i think that because i see all the turns i’m being pressured
to take in them, in a totality. it’s disgusting.
don’t ever tell me to keep an open-mind
about ghetto shit-hole places
built for the mentally ill- these scarlet letters, i swear-
to spend their days being bored at
until they’re drained entirely of insurance money.
the stuff you imagine i experience
probably scares you. it scares the hell
out of the relatives of people who wind up
in those places. it sure scares the hell out of me
almost as much as it motivates me. hey,
say this instead: “the stuff
i imagine you experience scares me. and since
we’re related, and it happens to you, it could happen to me. hell,
at least a dash of it is happening to me.”
i sure know the stuff you experience
scares the hell out of me. i never want to be boring.
i do not see myself in the future investing
or monopolizing on this set role for me
or the fact that my personality
happens to clash with the culture it is set in,
the culture it resents. you know, money money money
and nothing else.
i have invaluable assets, assholes.
i make beautiful paintings.
i write wonderful things.
i am nice.
i am smarter than you or anyone else in the family
will ever be.
this is what i want to say, probably, when i cut myself
even though i hide it.
the only reason i hide it is because i feel shame.
the only reason i know anything about shame
is because i was taught i need to be ashamed
in our beloved dumbassed culture.
i am so much fucking better than a weapon of illness, than
a sad fucking sap. if i am a weapon, i believed, than i am
a weapon out to defend itself. i am a weapon that got
exhausted of doing such
and needed to go to a hospital for such
but it seems it didn’t have everything to do with me.
i am a lightning bolt. i am a distinguished human being.
if the health, if the patterns, if the seriously obvious
unresolved problems of the entire family continue
to depend on me somehow- if this continues, i will die
without even meaning to. it’s too much weight
for one person to stand under
and be expected to stay in place under forever and ever.
it is a world of ghosts that never crossed to the other side
on top of my shoulders and my head and fat and aching back,
heavier than all of mankind in one room
calling things as they see them.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

@metal machine music.

dearest lou reed. i love you. i know you're dead so we're supposed to have this past-tense thing going on, but i'm still alive, in fact, and your documentation very much so continues to live on in my memory. and it's not like we had a close relationship, in the sense that we've never met on the physical plane. but we've met, or at least bumped into each other, at least once or twice, on at least a few other planes. 
and if we're going to talk about life- there's something about you, that i think is very elemental, very pure, so unable to be removed from life. you lived and evolved without transmutating any rudimentary base from which you expressed. you could not even if you tried. if one is expressive of being purely alive, and nothing else, i love them. that's why we love you, us living people. if i follow the straightforward path, ever, it's not solely because i strive for honesty. it's also because of you.
i'm not going to lie- it does hurt my feelings that all these amazon people under their amazon guises find my review of metal machine music unhelpful. but i stand by what i had written- i want to be approved by you. if i did some fan-thing of squeezing some bullshit out of my ass about how metal machine music is tolerable to listen to, you'd know i'd been missing the point. i love metal machine music for other reasons. i see degeneration in the music industry, and so did you. and yeah, all that "style" stuff? i know! i don't get it, either. it's all a facade.
but not you. and not your work. and not your word. you are a gift to this world, you, among the multiverse. come taste your reverberations through my muscles.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

@internet; malicious trickery.

you package yourself neatly like a bed
made every day

but i will never be able to be
how you tell me to get myself to be

no matter
how i incidentally
contrive myself

into something that i'm not.

and anyway, if i am not ready- for anything,
that is, not just you- i resist.

Sunday, December 13, 2015

seahorse/womanizer.

i dreamed i was pregnant with the baby of a guy that seemed like i knew well while i was losing all this other male attention. i ruminated over the loss of male attention so badly that i didn't notice i was pregnant. perhaps this is why guys on the net were losing their interest in me.
my many eggs were passed to the belly of the father, whom i had slept with prior to the beach vacation i was on when i learned about my pregnancy. it was in northern pennsylvania. although he was irresponsible and self-centered, and had slept with many others while i was away, these were definitely our eggs, because we were meant to be together and all that. outwardly i was angry. in my head i explored baby names. honey, temple, daisy...

Saturday, December 12, 2015

the likeness of the speaking bitch.
pale as the soft-serve. king of the sun.
lavender epsom and lavender that. do you

like lavender? lavender
is a cure-all; purple, like amethyst, another

cure-all.

not white lithium.
not god-only-knows. not hearing a prayer

that tells me i've got to run. give now
to the american cancer fundraiser
donations of vending machines-
looking into my future, those

cat ladies who tell me everything they've overcome,

one thousand steps past my next mood
prompted by meeting them. i'm tired

of this giving back shit.
suck your cancer sticks and go to hell. flush
down hell, a toilet,

until re-born. the repetitive circus.
there's no place to go. no. there is. i washed

my sheets- now, somewhere between
being the wind and being dead in
a duffle bag. what was that ocean mission,

the one with friendly creatures and
happiness? a dream. one hell of a dream

of one hell of a lucky girl. what does she see

when she goes home? spit on the mirror
covering nothing possible to reflect; a higher
sort of consciousness

meditates itself into not killing itself.
i lay in the den i whisper in. i lay in the sand
under the sun. i see myself as someone else;
i whisper lies in the den i lay in.

Friday, December 11, 2015

the invisible rapist.

it's important that money fuck me
everywhere i go, in every little porous hole, jesus,

there must be at least a million. i am full of this shit.

"how much for that drug-album[...]
how much did he make
off that drug album?
i refuse to listen to it. i hate
drug albums. it's a drug album
is why. "

pick

your poison and allow it to keep you alive. it will

result in a drug album. all of our eyes
are blackened and it isn't from

not eating enough vegetables. money
undoes the stuffing in every undissected bit

of the tissue that is me.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

well holes.

taking velvety-warm songs to heart- after
you go, the melody
is still there. you will

play the same song over and over. you will
wonder what i'm up to now

and realize we're not in it together
any longer

and we were only in it together somewhat
to begin with.

it was slanted. not
entirely, but mostly, it was about
you. i addressed that i resented this. there was

nothing left for me to do but to
give myself an ultimatum. continuing on,
or moving on.

and listen- love is a precious thing. refuse
to let go of it. it's never really

the person. (let go of the person.) love
is the m.o of the heart, so the cards say, and i know

we're not supposed to agree with them
because cards are campy and expensive,

but i agree.

nobody wants to get sympathetic, but they do
get that way. our hearts

our on our sleeves- pure. wholesome. adorable.
let it be. mine too. allow this.
i have this bottomless reservoir for
feeling anything. for instance, today

i got angry.

i thought about swinging my dog's bagged shit
toward a car, an
imagined car, in which the driver

rolled down his window and put
his foot on the car's brake, because he couldn't help

but tell me
that my dog is walking me, and my hair
looks stupid, and that i need to have a sense

of humor.
(that's not the truth. i can't remember exactly
what he told me.)

i walked and thought about my blood and stuff. still,
i'm doing that? still doing that.

i walked more and thought about how you called me
while i was in my hospital pants and hospital socks
and in the hospital all safe and stuff,

and on this phone call, i gently asserted myself, explaining
to you not to visit me if it was only because

you felt all pressured to do so- because we're
supposed to express sympathy to

our loved ones- and that sympathy is supposed to be
much bigger than it is. that's me fucking up somewhat, needing
to put my foot down
and remind myself and everyone else

that i hate all rules; yes, that's me

alright, the anti-establishment type
of queen.

i knew you were afraid of what you'd see
and that you believed you'd see it.

you
and your self fulfilling prophecies.

but really. i wanted you to visit me. i needed
proof of our relation

in order to either move on or not.
but i knew you didn't want to come and some part
of me had enough of your sentiments

being bigger than what they really are.
i was tired of being a cardboard prop.

you thanked me for understanding.

the last time it was like this i convinced you
to see me. after being reluctant, you finally

did. that was a while ago. remember?

this time, the day after thanksgiving

you called me to inform me you had "a nervous
breakdown" the day before and your

sister calmed you down. i probably
rolled my eyes, listening somewhat to you

but also somewhat to me, too.

it was then, that moment, that you
floated away like a balloon. a red one, off into

a muggy sky, up, up,
and away, perhaps in an industrial area, somewhere

in the big city, where i know
you want to be.

today, when i was angry, i was thinking of how i still
haven't seen you. i thought of how

you sent me word that your car is in repair and
how i don't fucking care.
i thought of myself screaming at you about my

psychological state being difficult to forgive, somehow
getting it to hit you that i'm special

in the way you'd rather i not be, as if

if i wasn't offbeat, everything would come together. you know
what? i'm tired of being identified as the ill person

in your life and the lives of others. this is what
i'm in repair over. this psychological state,

it is my car.

without it, i walk through a fire. i die, burning
because of fire. i set myself up for it.

i worry
i'm going to wind up retarded somehow

because i have limitations. i'm supposed to
change and accept things at the
same time. isn't that crazy? isn't it crazy

the people we throw our love at, but it
turns out it's just more throwing of shadows? how we
search them for something we can't find

in ourselves-? that's
something else. i traveled the country for this shit
then got fried then got afraid to leave the house.
isn't it crazy

how we have to dig into our own bodies to present
our hearts to ourselves in order
to love someone- it has to be
ourselves, and we'll never love anyone else

past ourselves- in order to
reach out, but we have to stop reaching out however
we were before

to do so? i'm searching for reality in the eyes

of my jury
to manipulate them into saying something differently
about my crimes. i can't get a read

on them
any other way.

we have to be surgeons/

i've dissected before, and i've done it really well
but couldn't get that passing grade

because i wasn't someone worth that
reaching-out-to, not during the moment. i was rejected

and i'll be damned if i forget.

i forgive rejection because- even though
this has nothing to do with anything, it's always
in the back of my mind- i know

it is me disappointing myself. my expectations
are limitless.

love

is precious. love is kind. it's patient. once
you find love
you find stories to tell. love

makes everything fantastical. i refuse

to judge who i've extended it to. but now
i refuse to judge myself, too.

sanity asassin.

wednesday entails watering plants, enough laundry to cloth an army, and putting the recyclables outside. who could ever think someone who does this kind of stuff would ever feel all-by-myself? although this is valid, let's oppose it with magnified reality. yes, when i appear to myself, i see it from the angle of others, as if i care what they think about myself, as if i want to know what i look like, really. this has nothing to do with being "sick" or anything until someone tells me it does and then i feel unsick about myself- grounded, if i may.
there's a difference between being alone and feeling alone. currently, my dog is sniffing my back-end as i'm matching my mood to bauhaus.
let's discuss how i intend on putting an end to procrastinating returning my movies to the library that i borrowed recently. like, within a half hour. then i'm going to drive with sam-i-am the dog, because he's impossible on the leash.

i can identify a few things. before the last i-can't-help-it sort of mess-up, you know, the stuff that puts the scarlet "pathetic" on my breast, i couldn't exercise my breathing anymore. i felt like i was short of breath. besides, i count when i breathe, and i couldn't count anymore. "one, two, three, four, eight, twelve...fifty? fifty one, fifty three, fifty nine....one hundred?" i was drinking ten to twenty cups of coffee a day with the same meaning of alcohol: oral fixation. no, i will not listen to bauhaus' fanboy cover of ziggy stardust because it smells like teen spirit.

supposed to call people today and how does one go about that kinda thing.

will walk to the library first. will finally watch fight club, the movie. mrs dalloway was nice, as were the verbose art history books, the latter i mostly skimmed like a cheater-fake-evildoer, but i need a break. i learn that my memory and my attention suffer as much as i do.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

objects. and inconstancy.

forgot that i was kept together inside myself and flirted with it to find it out,
turned it into a shell.

i am shocked and constrained by this- also offended and
dispassionate. trapped-thumbelina unable to flick a snake-tongue out to happiness
in captivity. boo hoo! ruminating. boo hoo! what

was that i noticed when i blinked? where
did it head off to now? will it still be there? eyes open

and only a box and its
familiarities surround me now. thumbelina

is smacked and confuses

true happiness with whitewashed happiness. it really does
abuse us, that autocrat. but you know what, i think

everyone experiences this waking up
after finding out you were sleeping the whole time

during times
of adjustment. it could be

worse- meaning, felt differently- there's plenty
of congestion out there to diffuse

into the mist of, plenty of
gifts to feel pressured into giving; go ahead

and bonk
into other things, blankly,

as a purpose. might as well. not being a lost soul
sure is a lonely feeling. the milky way

needs to exercise her thread in new
directions
each time she stretches that breathing,

that tidal flutter
of that gigantic butterfly, hurting
from impressions of choicelessness over me; what was it

i meant to thread into? it is a box
and the familiarities of this box, apparently. this

reasoning i do not recall. what was i thinking? i want
my umbilical cord back.

Friday, December 4, 2015

forgot how it was to feel what i had inside
myself- it wasn't pink
and it was widespread- and i'm back into

feeling it in a different way again- i'm back
to the same part of space; nothing

could stop me from being a corner, this is
something not yet discovered
by science.

apparently,
you could rise from the dead

even after you've cut yourself off. remind me
of how i grab the bull by the horns; silly

wishfulness- the grab for control?- whatever

control is. tell me
who the strong human being is

because
i refuse to turn back into a mermaid.

i told myself coming would keep me intact...


he said "it's all in your head" and i said "so's everything" but he didn't get it...


i'm a hot knife i'm a hot knife...


the red isn't the red that we painted it...


Thursday, December 3, 2015

hey jupiter by tori amos.

flying ships sagging- i guess that's what people who fail
to fall further then their senses of trust allow them

see in the sky
which they believe is a car they will win. a new car.

in this sky is shouted "BE THE ONLY MIRACLE, ASSHOLE."
these stars are dead but they go on seeming to exist, at least, to me. i want a dangling carrot- persuasion is missing, off
with the silent treatment.

i guess fifteen days isn't that much. but consider, during
these fifteen days i talked about that horrible thing

that happened this one time that changed
my personality, when i learned

committing to making changes when changes
can be made

can endanger a person, and i really ought
to talk about this sometime, consider
i was surrounded by the stuff i neglect myself

of because i'm too busy
unsucessfully protecting myself from my pain, and that

this eraser-board was finally wiped: cut-and-dry,
correct and singular
diagnosis, correct
path led to, being nice and stuff, tweaked
medications. "relief from nightmares," they supply, "much less torture for this poor girl who-has-been-through-so-much (et al)."

there was a heat wave who hooked into
my fish-mouth, and swam away with this,

us both- rallying- the end of the great gatsby. gatsby dies.
ebb. flow. continue working on
drawings. sleep steadily, eat steadily, know

i am reacting better then the last time. my, how i've changed
for the better...strides i've made. renounce

fidgeting
until it escapes the mind. hopefully-realistically not this time.
the emotional beast.

cosmic forgettings. prey
on moving on. live. live.
leave behind tragedy- faceless, it goes

without a chance to move forward.
i believe in buried hearts like this.

dear mr syndrome, i fell in love with you, that
volcanic sudden, unpredicted
sporadic type, but when i picture you

your features look deranged, you look like
the last guy but with deranged features,
who this happened to

in my head. difference: he was a dick.

frog and toad drove into the lily pads, drowning
not themselves really, just the lily pads.
ice cream had dripped everywhere is why.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

i am tired.

there are many parts. the first one is languid- i don't feel very real- as in, i'm unable to establish my own space, or if i have, i've abandoned it, and entered a place where everything else is real, and i do not fit in it. it's a low-hanging cloud- languid, oscillating, easily perpetuated- but the way i generate the meaning of things is indirect. the math is very complicated, even mysterious. with this being the way it is, it seems very painful that life is "unfair", so i can lay down all day with my hyper-vigilance- because, if my goal in life is to just survive each moment, then i'd rather do it as a languid cloud. one rule: my anxiety may not be made visible. nobody is allowed to see my anxiety in its raw form which it fails to evolve from.
the second part is when i, as always, continue feeling unreal, but i am moving faster. it's an emotional migraine. if i move faster, my thoughts are faster, they move with violence. the id unveils itself. i disown the possible relation to anything with a discombobulating suspension. the chances of me holding myself together are really slim. and if my thoughts are faster, i move faster, except i can't match the speed of my thinking. it feels just as pathetic. the unfortunate catch twenty-two is that the golden rule applies here, too: my anxiety may not be made visible.
the demands of life don't feel any less than torturous. it feels miraculous that i can listen to music sometimes, because even the music feeds my anxiety- i would be making music if i wasn't so fucking pathetic. the demands of life are aggressive in their demanding and i too demand, aggressively, to comply. but i am blocked. i am devastated by how painful it is for me to go out there, always fucking grieving- like, "i just died again", as opposed to congratulating myself. very surface-deep thing to do. but there is nothing that comes close to the degree of demoralizing as being on display, knowing i am out, misunderstanding, and not fitting.

Monday, November 16, 2015

well, i can say, at least i don't imagine a violent death for myself anymore. no- i just imagine the breath extinguishing itself from my body. went in the backyard as it's a beautiful day and i accept it. there are tons of creative things you can do about beautiful days. i laid down under my oak tree, kali, next to the part of the earth around her where i buried that sunstone, the day hugo died. i needed to make sure things were mystical that day. making things all mystical is going the extra mile, reassuring myself that all this, all this life stuff, is a singular spirit, and that my dog dying- well, it's a good thing i grew mint and st. john's wort the same day. it's a good thing i garden in the first place, trim plants, do stuff like that.
i need to make sure if i have a say over it, nothing goes soulless.
i wondered if that sunstone is a heart now, or something involved with the earth breathing. and if i buried my ear, if i'd either hear it or destroy the process. i wondered this as i was looking at the trees in neighbor's yards. funny how they grow and reach into the space around themselves like the veins in our own bodies do.
laying down on the grass and dirt. is this my usual depression, or a temporary extreme depression? i don't know the point to reading although i try. i haven't had a meal unless it's been handed to me for months- i cannot explain how upsetting food is. there aren't words for every emotion. i know it isn't wise to try to make up for my mistakes of eating, but please, if you will, allow me some make-believe control. i thought about cookies, indeed, while i watched my new dog, sam-i-am, and his shadow, prance around the yard with his frisbee-in-mouth.
i can't believe i have something to do in a few hours. i can't believe i have stuff to do almost every day every week. i so wish i didn't have a taste for responsibility, for hoping things will make everything else brighter.
the color of the sky is a hell of an eye-opener - plainly blue. there is nothing to doubt about it. uncomfortable, because i do doubt it, i bundle up- sweater over long sleeves and sweatpants, hood over head. if i were to stick my tongue out, and say, taste the sky, it might be a little chemical- a little too good to be true. my tongue might consider its arrangements an unhappy affair, being stuck in the same body.
well, i could say that i've forgotten how to throw love or passion outside of my mind. it remains there- no. it goes into paintings, looks like jungles feeling threatened of being cut. feeling threatened by never realizing an imago- it shies away. and the moss hasn't crawled on me yet, nor has the ivy- i'm not an old, unattended-to house. i'm an empty house, a doll's house, ready when the make-believe is. i'm something irretrievable.
there's a special exception given to that which shies away; a special pass that gets you anywhere. the wish to look above the canopy- for just a second, at least. the taking it easy. i've watched myself try to get there.
and i've been told that i have to go for a drive in the car when the car is there, or whatever, sometimes, when i am at my least adequate. the things i think are dark and upsetting. i don't need more ammunition.
i don't go out there when i'm inadequate to myself. i have to appear beautiful. there's nothing wrong. look at this cowboy wearing black. it cannot be fucked with.
this having to get myself out there business, learning how to do the things i didn't learn to do as a small-thing (the child who mothers me), in order to maintain a distance from intrusive ideas- it's all a threat. it's what other people would do so they recommend it to you. i do stuff sometimes, think about it later, and find myself short of breath; unable to recover without suffering near-drownings over and over. and this making friends business- i'm really not into it, as much as i wish i was. i have no idea how to make friends without keeping them very far away. any closer, and i eat them alive. it just seems like nobody is paying attention to what seems obvious to me. i'm not sure why, but this enrages me.
and what keeps me from becoming entirely possessed by bad ideas, from going home to satan? i know i haven't come through with my obligations. i haven't gathered a compilation of correspondences with other people. some paintings are unfinished. if i could do one thing for the loved ones, i could leave behind at least putting my all into the stuff that is my all. as far as writing- it's sad, nearly tragic. i don't believe i'll ever find my own voice. what voice i come across is that composed of the stuff i pick up while feeling certain ways, remembering certain things. i give up looking for certain things and just let myself speak however it happens to come across through me.
i don't mean these wounds. i suppose i was a soldier at some point and never grew out of it.

stops between stations.

horseshit- misfit- the tweed of
sorrow- not a soul
to cry to- not a soul- to really cry about-
either. looking up "how to run away" on the

internet. one type-o: all the people who'd be
affected. it's not sunshine that reminds me

of them, you see- it's the weighing of pros and cons.
and i see them, skinny hesitant people
walking around, who don't know better than to
not fuck me over

even when i'm signalling to them
"fuck me over".

i've spun a gray man, in
gray mist, gray
saddle, gray-naked, gray
fists, gray loose reigns, grey neighing horse,
grey directionless, grey saunter, grey town, grey throw, grey
hair, grey penny. these

are the statues solidifying. it takes time.
meanwhile,

grey rich boy points at the penny
because it's exotic. grey poor boy
pockets the penny, and i'm not going to

say why, because i'm the grey poor boy. there's
no need for me to explain myself.

grey goes. one of the grey boys must become
a ghost. the ghost conjoins themselves

to the other- the survivor. unspoken
blood on their hands, obviously. blood

on all of our hands, generally, also
unspoken of. that's guilt, you know. believe me.
grey goes the goose to

the shelter that's somehow
like mozambique. oh, something about myself
is waiting for

that degree of devotion, that surrender
to gravity, all out of selflessness; the kind you'd lose
all your respect for yourself if you

tore yourself away from it. the world
swallows itself for nutrients

from the center, first, learning, upon
doing so, that there's no room in the belly- it's filled
with plastic that isn't going anywhere.

we will never fully solidify, no; we must
grin and bear it.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

pull to the bullet.

i jump into the knives; sometimes
evil demands an answer, and resistance

is denial, and denial
makes us repeat the same words
as we circle around the

elephant in the room over and over. sweat

for the son of god, from behind the wheel
and while on the phone. both

at once. the cost of living is on me.
if these were bows and arrows we had to
work with,
we'd feel a little less defective. it's something
i think i might like to see
of myself. i can't think of much else

that'd keep me warm. this is the me
that's been in the bowels of the big
city- the forest of used-to-be. parts of me have
left it for
a little while. other parts of me have left it for good, parts

of me are still here, knowing
there's not much for me to do next- except, say,
cry, and work on

loosening the tension in my muscles. next step:
howl

and let every wolf out there come to me.
dislike them.

leave them for dead. let it all
take care of itself.

walk through a desert for so long
that new accents become
a piece of cake to understand. continue to fail

to understand old wounds, though. believe i've been robbed
a lot. (i've seen it in movies a lot.) change drops from

my pockets. no matter

how ominous
the cloud, capture the fluff of it. meet
the maker- the one that's in us all
and all those who hang from windows, and all those
who've jumped off railroad platforms.

if you put your head in my arms, and told me

who you were other than
who you wanted to be, i'd say

we're all roman numerals, even
your young children. having more than one
is going too far, but who would know

any better.
i'd sing your children a song, all the songs
get along. we might all

like to learn how to sing songs, and be
in one another's arms, these stranger-arms travel

in circles. hardly a soul
can get by them.

there's nothing in life but you.

wolf at the door. stamp of approval. wolf at the
door, second time. stamp of approval. eat
grandma alive and wear her brooklyn housecoat

and polka dotted nightcap. eat a child and some
cardboard prop of a hunter guy.

think from the gut.

get saved never. drink wine. find out we've been in the stomach
of a whale at the end of the day, anyway,
this whole time. there's
enough room

for an army to get parasitic upon itself.

get triggered. hold trigger to temple. massage
temple with trigger.

get forced into marriage. get forbidden

from learning anything outside
bubble-to-come, ever again. say "i accept
this," but later, take it out on children.
this nurtures the child's goody-two-shoe ways.
see the future of self
in self's mother. rule many kingdoms, ones

stolen from peaceful people. be a
hypocrite- brutalize criminals for doing
the same stuff you do. judge others

for their ways of lives, though
the way of life
is all that cannot be undiscovered. i don't

remember how i got into it, but here
i certainly am. if one can claim

that everything that goes wrong around them
is their doing, then wonder-

if everything goes wrong around me, is that
my doing? not everything goes wrong,

just everything i think about. re-lace
syntax, because everything is going to be
this way for a long time anyway,

so
just
do the stuff that's easy for others to say
it's
just
easy to do. do your ears steam
with anger? oh my god, mine too. remember,

crime doesn't exist. it's only

fairytale fluff which we disagree with
and call it
crime

because it is not mine.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

attack of the haunt.

in honor of trying to work away from how repelled i am by my recent works of writing, i raised all but a few of my past blog-musings from the dead. while i understand this didn't need an announcement or anything, i wanted to, in order to make a smooth transistion into announcing that my most viewed blog-thing (except one) is titled "my father likes porn". shows you what people really care about. hold back all, yee, save when surfing the web.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

loneliness is humiliating. i cannot think of anything more embarrassing. anything i've ever transmitted through the internet i want to hide because i'm really uncomfortable with my lone-wolf ways recently. i don't feel open, but i'm putting on my most open. [ < ---- will add annotation if i remember what i meant by this seemingly dialectical statement ]
although there are other people in my life, my best human-friend is my therapist- and I DO NOT TRUST THAT HE IS NOT BEING MEAN TO ME IN HIS HEAD. the thing is, i can count on our relationship staying therapist and therapist's client until it isn't. whereas with everyone else, i have no idea what is going on except my "heightened senses". that's pretty terrifying for me, what with my pre-existing survival overdrive. so, i'm practically always screaming or crying at people, should people be around. this all, of course, is behind closed doors. i'm beyond awesome in public because you have to be. you have to make it clear that you're aware in order to alert the danger out there that you do not give it permission to fuck with you.
i feel pretty out of touch, what with being unable to be in touch with my own brain fully- it, written off as defective. i had made a mistake and believed it was ten years since i began medication. no. it's been eleven years.

i shared this angry sentiment all lonely-like so thinking-anything earlier. it bothers me that i can't allow my brain to breathe the way it was born because i'll be in big trouble from my medicated way of life. it bothers me that i have to watch what i say or i may be pigeon-holed into something new and invalidating. got wild imagination? got psychosis.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

numb clitoris.

a protest, because dichotomies count. now

there are two. two things
to rub.

the world
is a world now. we now all have less money
then what would suit ones needs and we make it
top priority to go above
and beyond this and someone just had to
fucking say something about it so now also
we all hate each other. water water everywhere,
summer, fall, winter, spring, happy place. and 

my favorite part
and everyone elses too- except secretly- is that

we all know

money is only paper, anyway....so
stealing from the faceless
isn't all that bad
just because you might wind up
in jail (the juries interpretation of hell)

because
money

is only paper

at the end of the day
anyway
like
i said.

everybody is into robbery.

i remember being crazy like that. not like, have been there,
done that, and considered
myself crazy before, so that much be where i am
now- not that kind of self- identified crazy. i mean,
the kind of crazy where i wanted to stop thinking

what i was thinking but also i didn't, but
i didn't know any better. war stories up
the wazoo just like you.
i remember
those days were just as scary as they are now,
but somehow,

i prefer that era of time to this one, not
that i would've be caught dead saying so
then.
i wouldn't have been convinced.


i'm just being honest, as they say, not
considering anything else:

the search for glory,
frying the commitment to the moment, like a damn blow-dryer
in a damned tub filled with water. we're damned

if we do. we're damned
if we don't. there's some other extreme. there's a lot
that exists that we don't know- that is-
if this is existence.

and i don't mean to electrify myself for the sake of
anything other than discovering the gateways

to other catalysts. such
complements my skin tone.
naivety for us all, no matter what,

because when you move, you move forward; at least, you
move on.

so, as long as you're doing that, do
anything else you want, as well. it takes
a near-manifestation of evildoing spirits

in order to rip bits of the shaman from
the body. and even if
this happens, it remains,

discombobulated, but still
spiritual
on your behalf

so don't freak out.

is that you
in the confession booth next to mine? i thought
i fell i just fell in love,

fucking keepsake light-switch. tame your own
goddamned self. you forget
where you come from? you come from

the mortifying shit-hole
that constitutes your unconscious mind; your birthplace.

all else: now, now, now.
i'm all for it. now, and nothing else

taken into consideration. i am walking
on my own two feet, aren't i? i demand
all sorts of action take place. you wouldn't believe

whose teeth have sank into my meat today
and how often i didn't get what i wanted. water water everywhere.
am i making sense of my surroundings

and my refusal to sort them out yet?

my life
is my work.

the new plague i keep confined within, unable
to need the help it wants. it's a bubble-life; unable

to get the point across outside of itself
but it means all the world inside; it makes sense.
one day, it was

leaked online somehow
to the city of slackers. the people there become
many things at once,
and trust me, it is absurd. i prefer not to look at it

so i feel it somehow: grey cloud through a tunnel

on a rough day; information- any sort- through one ear
out the other. well aren't you
a surprise. and such a surprise it is

that i'm not into you yet. i still wish
there were more trees around; colors
found in nature (oxygen). but my style

isn't in style yet. recurrent trend: i have to wait for the people
to follow my lead and copy my shit
right after making fun of it

and sometimes they take their time because they tend to
be asleep or
are really busy watching porn: one after another

they doze off
as the clitoris erases itself into a blur- theirs, or someone
elses. 

it falls asleep
as it feels outside about itself.

in the backyard? yeah, fuck yeah. baby, i'm going
to abandon you over and over all night long 'til
the cows come home and you keep almost passing out
but i keep slapping you silly on your face
and your ass too and you keep apologizing for
yawning and also you feel
eerily numb

in the backyard.