Friday, July 31, 2015

heaven is the feeling i get in your arms.

a few nights ago i dreamed my husband, vincent van gogh, had died, or escaped time...i lost him somehow.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

zeus.

reachless greet:
that lover- the one that takes over when torture
is
an understatement, which is always. it takes
itself out on itself, flickering a

sense of self paralyzed between

a wars lack of strategy. and even further
in-between: my jealousy of

humanity: a window i
headpress against. i put faith in- no- i know
of commonality among them, and that

it is innocence. i'm outside and
noticing. it must be true

that i am one without humanity.

where is the innermost desire- that

cosmogony?
is that not what expression orbits?
we all

need to destroy a little bit, and i refuse
to accept
i've a willingness to please.

i've said this before and i'll say it again:
space is dangerous. everything

can potentiate a danger.

it's said that people explode up there in space-
so might too i-
and that it's really dark-

as too might i be to see. so

give me space and spare me
nothing- in however zooming every flying

meteor.

not a moment of it will seem weird.

the invisible root.

rivers lead everywhere, little streams
being cute; their color

is no color. the trees rustle, but
not from wind or anything.

sound is impossible. weight puts on

weight; weight, weight, weight,
weight; nothing smaller

or bigger: the everyday experience.
comfort? the mossy rock

assertion- in true sleep,

i am among them, being
bobbed around, far away- a hopeless

far-away- from being introduced
to the invisible root.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

more vacancy for sale.

the building is empty.
the apartments are empty.
the apartments contents are empty.
the ingredients of the apartments contents are empty.

the current is empty. the wind is empty. the moon is empty.
light pollution is empty. airplane! airplane! airplane is empty.
emergency airplane landing is empty.
passengers- empty.

do's and don'ts are empty.
do empty. don't empty.

i'm sorry for your loss is empty.
wearing black to funerals is empty.

apologies are empty. hope is empty. promises? never
trust a promise. promises are empty.

urgency is empty.
on one knee with a ring that costs months of salary
for the diamond found by enslaved people in africa

is empty.

throwing your water at someone because you're insulted
is empty. insults are empty.

holidays are empty.
keeping up with appearances is empty. appearances
are pretty fucking empty.

poverty is empty.

the birth process is empty.
the death process is empty.

you realize at the beginning. you realize
at the end. you go on to live.

criminalization is empty. de-criminalization is empty.
legalization of drugs is empty.
keeping them illegal is empty.

learning new recipes is empty
being cute and crafty is empty
rock and roll is empty

currency is empty
flags are empty

patriotism is empty

reflections of light are empty
i am tired is empty.

nighthawks.

apologies are empty
respect is empty
hi how are you is empty
fuck you and your mother too is empty
calling stuff stuff is empty
funerals are empty
space is empty
showering is empty
watching the news is empty
propaganda is empty
money is empty
work is empty
literature is empty
taking pictures of myself is empty
cleavage is empty
that snake is empty
that lion is empty
that fight between the snake and the lion is empty
reasons are empty
medieval times are empty
fridge is empty
stomach is empty
growl is empty

safety from candles left unattended.

this desert comes out of itself with canyons-
goose pimples. a very long

groundless, sinking walk- twisted
convalescence seeking maturity-
but mostly legs.

this is the body that does not know what it's
doing. at night, the sky

demands attention, else it dazzles
not even its own solitude.

it is
an arrangement of signs when there
aren't any signs

o'rion lost track of himself
without a trace of nebulous footsteps-

zero zero zero. rain arrives, whipping journey
with dried sky-flowers-
five zillion forget-me-nots.

the sky is blue for our attraction to unrequited
love and related
tragedies. its love is a slow burning
fire- too massive and

dangerous to be near.
i feel like saying no to every moment, the
reflection of the day, dried

and alas fickle, somehow compressed,
rolling in vestiges of no-man's land,

obligations to obey the heart the do-gooder, who
refuses to be taught archery-
itself, a reverberating type of bow.

it's kind of an art, something
to look at appreciatively without critically

dissecting why. it's clearly broken but
eager with new roots- an angrily tossed

ceramic that gives into wanting the best, keeping
itself alive, keeping

a trail of desert-wandering- lost,
and determined to be found

mostly legs, only appearing to disappear
in whichever windsweep.

naked overnight.

waves of heat perpetuate
from corners; lonely
eternity, of cupped hands
it has occurred to me that i don't "believe" in anything, and i'm starting to feel like a total gods damned nihilist. at first, i stopped believing stuff because it seemed invented. then i took it a step further and realized that what is invented is invented by people, because they're afraid of something deeply unconscious and wounding. a couple of days ago i stopped believing doctors are really doctors- that doctors are ever truly medicine people- shamans. i have stopped believing in my medical conditions, considering i have been this way my whole life. marriage is a terrible thing for people to do to themselves- all this admin work and money, just to be introduced as freshly obliged semantics? don't you guys realize that's the justice system is completely fucked up, relationships don't last forever, and divorce sucks? then i realized everything is covered in semantics which is cultural rule and ultimate destruction, because people don't know they are innocent and overwhelmed and will stop at nothing to ignore truths because people are also stubborn. we learned war by way of said destructive tendencies and our dualistic outlook- our minds, and all which is not our minds. it's an innate thing- separating our sense of selves away from nature. but we have to start life this way, in order to gather ourselves away from the ego and lean back into the dimensionless. we are all nature.

i don't know what to do except realize it and not commit suicide

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

lilies.

the empirical back-off. i cannot flutter. i was touched
and now i'm gold. it causes stress.

lost in the wires, of which i obsess over;
intrinsic web of white-glow, under a microscope

it can be removed, or untangled, perhaps
a detonation is needed. it is throughout, twined, and

it crosshatches
into the pierced normal-way of all. get away
from those dead chances

before you drive yourself mad with dead chances.

today i chopped their leaves off
their innocent stalks. some of the innocent flowers
that hadn't had a chance to bloom yet, but

were readying for such,
came off in the process. i had to litter them across
the wasteland-landscape- the work

was hard, and it was very hot out.
the work was innocent, as was
the heat. innocence echos itself into backstrokes

baptizing- the essence of survival.
come to this pool. you're far too old

to fear sharks. jump off a roof into this water
and survive.

*we sell gold. we buy gold.*

spread the pussy juice with stefano dimera. he's back from the grave again and doing party drugs this time.

http://dondeestaeldiscochupacabra.blogspot.com/2015/07/instant-pussy-69.html?showComment=1438125504071#c3943721728865762702

devoured footsteps of all-giver.

governing stands alone.

we mustn't waste time; precious resources- look
at the stars.

we must go above and beyond.

it rained today, and you come from
the bad part of town. the world
is perfect; nothing dies.
you piss yourself in silence
and scream for mama.
it becomes an echo from the top of your mountain.
you make money off your hot little sex.
the world is perfect; nothing dies.

so you are messed up, and you've
said enough. you back out of the light.

i'm messed up. the world is perfect.
i undress.

i looked into my soul, knowing it is there.
something saddens me. my soul
is an invisible garden, drenched in gas.

i make money off my hot little sex.
today i
tied my wrists and ankles to the four posts
of a bed. on me somehow
money continues to be spent. i take the money

and forget what i do with it.
i wind up back to
the four-post bed. all these belts tying me
are made of leather. i think i keep spending money

on belts made of leather. this body has
been sufficiently stretched.
somebody is always leaving a quicksilver mess.

today i looked into my soul. i
saw people on fire. they were all the bodies
of early dreams.

i felt them for they touched. they sizzled;
i was touching the sun.

you're complex, and you wake up after you
go to sleep. during the between
you contemplate on suffering.

you know your reflection well. the outsider
does not have a reflection. you make faces
in your mirror. the outsider makes you
their mirror

and their prophecies, and their dreams. you don't
even know the outsider needs you in order
to carry out their prophecies.

the outsider is cunning.

i saw a sign and was so excited.
when i was little, i was told
i could be arrested for jaywalking.

it frightened me.
today, i think nothing.

what the world needs now the world is out of laws.
what the world needs now the world is out of laws.

Monday, July 27, 2015

hallelujah or however its spelled.

i've got a rock and the rocks got me.
the rock and i have got each other
so i've chained myself to it. it's pretty
heavy but i asked for it

so i won't let myself go. i like fucking up

and i like that i'm not getting anywhere. i like
being overwhelmed by my thinking enough

that i'll never fully absorb anything.
i like that nothing sinks in.
i like your bullshit.
i like my knee jerk reactions and i like
being crazy.
i like loving opposites who hate each other.

yesterday i thought about my brilliant future:
i've been viewing myself running down to
that nasty lake like

a video game. i like
that i'm incapable of seeing from my own
fucking eyes.
people try to catch me but they keep dying.
i run across broadway and the cars

crash into each other and explode.
i keep running and my feet hurt because
i've stepped on a lot of glass.

i keep kicking everybodies ass.

i get to the lake and people try to stop me from
going in it.
i tell them to get their rapist paws off me

and i elbow them in their eyes.
i get in the water and i die.

it's not that i want to die but i think i might as well die.
it's intrinsic and i've ruined my life.

i sure do like putting myself down.

god, take away the prayers and keep
the lightning bolts coming.
i don't like wanting because i feel very guilty that i want.

i don't like not wanting what i have because it seems
awfully ungrateful.

being sick for life feels like hell. it's awful nice
of me to see heaven in some things.

i sure am cute i'm a real cherub.
i've never done anything but been a complete ass.

check it out i'm resentful i wasn't taken care of.
check it out, i hate therapy.
check it out, i hate medication.
check it out, i hate everything.

check it out, god has big plans for me.

worthwhileness.

suffering ugly intimacy, oh soulmates
is there nothing we do not share?

listen, of duality, we must marry
the us
to the outside of us- we're all in love with

each other,

the human and the everything else.
listen all and come to me.

i am nothing without reflecting.
i need you or i'm one dead petal,

without experiences,
without a regulation,
without a sense of humanity.

do something.
bring yourself out in me.

counterintuitive guilt.

intrinsic weaving
i say yes to everything
i see throughness in everything

my makeup is not my own
i reflect another's, and i am one

give me all your third party features.

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i don't even know what this means (it's really boring) or why i should care, but i just want to let you guys (me) know that i'm being told what to do so you should rebel against this as i'm too mature to rebel.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

circe of waterhouse.

there's a place on my head
fit for a crown- i cling not to it

but to my trunk between that crown
and my roots that

tolerate anything, i think- i don't
know.

i'm a motel hide-out thing
that the cops target regularly

they saw the tree and me leave

and they took our love away

it hurt me and anyone who i am not. i've

made myself at home, paralleling
empty-space, motel-avoiding.

my life unravels attuned to a
sun
gathering of a private
alchemy- something

i have done on my own, everyday.

tearing a new one in the
universe, itself

supping on its own lost soul- the only
separated thing i know.

banisher of time's rule, unhaving
of law, inky
baritone ballad- i see you

in the lost crops, where i used to

hide and seek, but i wore a skirt
one day

and imagined a pinch on my leg
that reminded me of pictures i've seen

of spiders sensing human
destruction

singing about how it feels to know
everything about right now
because right now is all

and i began singing along with the spiders
and the crops that also sang.

but the cops targeted these crops
and told me to leave for good

because my skin was coming off
and it made me look foolish.

i was

the butterfly of the moment.

these days, i'd rather not go places.
i have to hold my breath, especially

when i need to let out an oxygen build-up.

sometimes i need to scream outside,
but i stop myself.

and i hang my head, because

i know that overdosing myself
with that weight

of lava
is only going to further complicate
my

crazy map- further me from a treasure
chest-

the truth beyond-

unveiled behind the
curtain of beliefs/no beliefs.

i'll either have a seizure
or i won't.

belief rises in the east, beautiful sunrise
going hand in hand
with loss of belief, setting
in the west- beautiful sunset.

and i live here.

i live here, all dualistic.

reality, of course, is traceless- that
directionless stroke- directionless

stroke that seems separate-

but the leaves hit it.
the leaves go skeletal in it, but reality-stream makes

its way

around these leaves

shit, this teaches me.

you teach me. if you cannot, i'm

so sorry- you cannot possibly
reach me.

on a vortex
i cast self out of myself, pregnant

with such.

i don't want old skin anymore. whoever
is after it can

have it.

shed, shed, shed.

we once were made of what we cannot
be without; we once all

held to each other, unabashedly
virginal

if you do not teach me, you do not
reach me,

because my fingertips are present elsewhere.
being unrequited to one

another.

shed, shed, shed, skeletal leaf.

no place serves make-believe.

sex positions.

the wind came in my house
unexpectedly. i was mad

it didn't show up sooner. and
i was mad
it touched my bared skin

when i didn't want that

i was mad it made a noise

i didn't want that

i was mad it came inside my house

i could not sleep until i

slept again.

the wind makes this promise that
it will come back. i don't count on it.

i've compromised for it. it's barely
noticed i'm alive.

the wind talks in a way
that i might as well talk

to myself- nobody gets that

but the source of the voice.

mad prophet, neither of us
are silence.

what you say are reminders that
i have to link myself
far away from what i know

into what i long for, which is
already there- the under-my-nose shit

that i'm so hungry to fulfill
a desire for, a penetration, a sacred
sexual act- a long train
crashing into my sensory know-how.

or an ambulette
or a fire truck
or a cop car
or my mother's car
or a kid on a bike
or a runner with their ears off
or a ball bouncing in the street
or myself in the room
or whatever is going on upstairs
or the television next door
or my taurus ascendant
or my leo descendant
or my long-gone hello kitty phase

or a traffic jam

that does not see me
driving slowly into my center-eye

cyclops like a worm's mouth

or it be a wormhole
which is what i too am

in which god is a fetal thing, unaware
trying to make sense
of how this is not so

Thursday, July 23, 2015

shoots in the middle of
my legs, and through

my spin- this apathy

is not a cooled-down desire,
it is not stale. all

the same- very much so,
fire remains fire.
another thing i want from life is for me to make my own candles. i watched instructional videos on youtube yesterday, and read some things (this was my favorite: http://www.theprairiehomestead.com/2015/02/how-to-make-beeswax-candles.html). i can totally upcycle all sorts of equipment for candle making. all i need now is beeswax, and loads of essential oils. full-bodied flower summery smells, anyone?

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

i like to move it move it.

at it again! the amount of incomplete paintings practically multiplies itself by 9749433494394729!


someone suddenly saw a gorilla skull in what was the moodiest painting ever and made life brighter.


blossom, in her fresh cup of poland spring water. check out the dead buggie silhouette in her chomper leaning to the left. her second bug in three days! man, is my room tropical!

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

i want to start a vanilla orchid garden, too. and i want to contribute to this recycling program: https://www.preserveproducts.com/recycle

beautiful poem.

what's living, if not about offering
life what it is one wants
from it? it is not, unless we have the

different story- the

enduring of life; limbo. they say
it gets better, and they tell you

to trust you when they say
it gets better. the sky lowers. i grab

a cloud-fluff, lifting into a sky
that is there for you, actively involved

in mediating struggles
as well as always overseeing.

love was never enough. love lives
face-pressed against glass wall and acts
like a drug from around

the block. love

is a discrepancy
yet to be figured out. it is always
taken personally.

love, you are too much of an emotional
purist for absolute worship.

the soul itself
is what constitutes my unconditional
religion.
the soul is the multiverse. i balance

in the present, stretching arms past either side
of it-seeking

whatever isn't wanting-

wanting, being that

obstacle i ought to see past; the longing
to navigate away from.

i may very well simply be

stretching my arms from myself,

knocked out of the awakening-function-
orgasm weak and hurt.

baby steps
toward introducing myself to
the innermost-desire: step one

of what i want from life:

i want
to meditate. seems fair.
get in touch with reality. without
ever wanting to leave it.

Monday, July 20, 2015

bottomlessness.

you doubted my intimacy you forgot its bottomlessness;

i doubt your shelter,
i doubt your roof stays together.
i doubt your water is without minerals.

i warn you, if it touches my roots,
it is your water that will cause them
to wither,
not anything already there. you will

continue onward, without
regard for life.

i lie down for hours without the lamp on.

the vegetable garden.

after my connection with god congealed
i did not need help being condemned; i can

do it on my own.

-----------+the pariah who faces the body
-----------+practices kissing with its fist
-----------+in the shower

----------+where the tide is weak. don't
be bothered facing such. be
underwater. facing

*a chosen-museperson
*who would see upward. this is someone
*who sees upward into an open womb
*
this is the stroke of a nudity that feels
like skin against anothers*************
*at the end of the day, this clothed-body person is
*seeing upward.

this growth must has
something to do with faith

in sentiment. somehow.

everything is in order, we are moving
upward- check, check, up
means yes. this garden

is a vertical thing, perhaps
an elevator.

solar agents beaming wizardry of
solar make-up once were

speaking in tongues

now they speak in my head
with the smoothness of
silence, that which tells the story
of mine

that i don't see myself in.

it began long before
looking up at the sky did- forgotten king, mammoth

soon a legacy
to carry on likeness
soon i will carry other things,

but the earth
will do better than that.

it is the snow.

i am on the ground, surrounded
by many bottles today

sitting on a highway, careless
about surroundings.

king of ugly? knock. knock.
king of ugly?

what offers relief?
what incantation do i ask of you
to get relief from you?

do i want to be remembered?
do i want to be remembered like
how others do? i must commit a sacrifice if so.

absolutely right and wrong too at once- is this color gold
the prophet spoken of
by ages old

i'd sworn i've broken out in it

i live in bed- take a look
at my woe, tell me
this is woe.************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************+

Sunday, July 19, 2015

suddenly last summer.


new friends: blossom, mercury, black-olive, dreamtiger, skirt. the air plants names are interchangeable for now. blossom is my venus fly trap! mercury is that amazing fuck of an art piece of a cactus. and like yeah, they totally came in that carefully cut brown paper bag. actually, they were transferred from a slightly wider bag to that bag. "i can tell you're emotionally attached to plants. me too," i said to the cashier, before i went into detail about relating my depression to my enormous and ridiculously healthy spider plant who i spend a lot of time staring at.

everyone else is doing well, too. my mint are growing roots. lavender in the house has not kept moths away even a smidgen, but like, that's okay because i've made great friends with all these bugs in my room, which kinda reminds me exactly of the first bit of ramayana. how he meditates covered in petrified ant hills? but these buggies are going to die soon, because i got a venus fly trap, y'all.
not exactly sure what the st. johns wort are doing, but they're hanging in, at least. my yellow-white roses still haven't bloomed except for half a sec early june, but check this out- my black-red-velvet roses developed a fragrance, as did the cheap-o seizure-pink ones. they didn't give off fragrances at all when we got them. wtf? is this a sign of optimal health or something? that'd be great. i don't talk to any of my plants, because that's just not my thing. my mother talks to the vegetable garden all the time, and i wonder if my silent relationship with the plants is connected to my utter lack of imagination and black heart?
at least, i know they're not going to answer in my taught language. silence is the answer to all, after all.

birth control babe.


lost and found: old poems that don't embarrass me.

(2011).

i want to go deeper
poke me with a stick
turn me into a pillar of salt

two cartoon eyeballs
staring into space,

under marzipan crown.

*
bell of a bike rang once slowly in black spaceeeee.

*
illegal drugs radar, suspicion
aroused. drugs
with a good scapegoat? a good

plan. good plant. bad plant.
serenity prayers in between meals.
       waves of biology
       mix into my
       conscious thinking. i feel a dream &
transfer to a ship-
my ocean comes back to me
like she promises
every night:
  
   fuzzy static erasing unwanted neanderthals.

*
first snowfall comes crumbling
after a day when
it was rainy so
i'm attacking everything-
        drawing ten thousand eyes.

watched bob ross happen in
my backyard, i haven’t
   since i was younger than ten.

ten thousand eyes are
out of their
sockets now, staring 
      at the toothbrush near
      dentures,
muttering about
many an episode, many
prayers to the moon, so
depressed -
       nonstop apologies between crying spells.

bad moon, bad! no, i won't ask
              aphrodite to come 
              out of the galaxy just to

plug my state of consciousness
into
     my feeling of connection
and
     make my sense of time move
     really really fast.

the videotape might tangle.

and such discord announces itself
     loudly. i hate it!

talk shit, talk shit, talk so much
shit.
your mouth’s talk isn’t
unlike shit.

go ahead, act like you're not
burning under your ruthless sun. but
       you’re melting-
       holy water, thirsty hell
                     -under mine.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

cold-fish.

i'm crowded with strangers
that seem to want to fuck me. did i say yes
and forget?
i must've. they creep in.

we are all soulmates.
remain, and love, love, love.

fuck me, and suck at it. i give you permission,
devil worship, only because
you're already doing it.

your
apathy quite reminds me of
how i mourn after my machine gunnings.

where are they now? the curtain, ever unveil?
they are shells. they

could be anywhere. this is
a war-torn country.

which could be useful one day- you never know
when you might need nightmares

to shit all over you and everyone you know.

if you are to pass on this apple,
i suggest a second opinion.

i will not judge you for choosing the fruit.
let the birth

of forests/factories/new formations slip
from your seductive mouth-
out is
a tiny fire, all red and blue and prickly-

test trial of touching- colors
awkwardly developing- utterness

losing itself only in itself- ready,
as i am, to be more of a moon

and less of a planet- eternal ripple.
access.
it's okay. everything is okay.

come to. come to. come to. come to.

universe kingdom.

tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!
tibet!

austerity for the golden leaf.

once circumspect- what was mine
seemed like glitches
sparking whenever the fuck. that's fine,

but the colors of the sparks were
disjointed. monochromes of blue.
black dripdrip. penniless green

petrified cat shit. rainbow. rainbow
turning to shit.
spark-hibernate. snow white.

my throat is not mine: things that go in
and out of it? i want them to be mine.

they are not mine. such routines

happen to keep together parts
of machines rather than how it did
for adam/eve.

my teeth hurt, and my voice slows and
lowers,
enabling cruelty- ignorant
innocent godless fucker. god how i love

your soiled asshole, your inferiority complex,
your cries for mama. crying

beside myself, hugging
what boniness i can still make sure is there,
it's you i'm underneath, taller
tower than totality- a non-dna strand.

i come at the tip of you being disgusting
inside of me, whether

in my sleep or
in my sickness that keeps trying

to reproduce with me. it's sterile.
more and more

i learn that i cannot destroy.

it was never like myself
to ever reflect light other than how i happen to.

i turn it onto me
being a creep, because i know how to do that-

that "real or perceived" discernment
has turned me into an
old person.

mother theresa said everyone faces poverty.

my poverty is sort of like
things not sinking in- and a refusal
that i can't connect to.
things gather but don't

reach into my stomach. they gloss
over the oceans
in their pussy-rowboats.

i'm the titanic
rediscovering this reality for

breakfast, each morning.

identify lotus, forget being
in the middle of doing that.
identify other flowers.
associate with other flowers.
this frog-hop is what the
lotus man would've wanted-

i bleed belief that he happened to me; i don't
give a damn what others see.

i'm never going to fuck up again because
in my reality the lotus man is more

and all of this/that; neverending.

i'm going to cry on his shoulder.
well,

it seems that's the only thing left for humans
to do.

Friday, July 17, 2015


this is the only painting i've like ever been able to experience an idea for, follow through with it and complete. *this was my first experience with painting on linen, and i do not get the big deal*. it started off as a tree thing that underwent countless changes until i painted a cave-painting panther that looks just like my dog over it. i've also been scratching and peeling off layers of paint. perhaps because i've been frustrated.

last night i had a dream the top-coat dried and destroyed it.

so happy to announce to myself that i am painting happily again. i started sample above last night and have loved every moment of it. unlike the five paintings below- some of which have been taking me over *a year*- which have been frustrating the bi-jesus out of me. i can't stand working in any way that isn't a free-for-all; that has any rules, that abides by forms, even. i think that has been the problem, because as you can see from sample below, those all have forms in them.



Thursday, July 16, 2015

long-hole.

long-hole, penetrated open mouth

circle-hole
closing at night

opening for animals
and if animals are, then animals
are alive, and if alive,
animals be wild
and if i know them as well as
i know myself,
i too am alive and wild.
swallow-seek,

peaked through one eye, seeing
sedimentary-history,

frozen in time
like crucified prophet-folk
throwing
light around, which is a bolt

dancing sprites or
a riverboat in turbulence or the
bold elusiveness of truth

i go into something else, all bitten up
and point my finger

to the wanderings of night-
frost-born spiritspeak, made
of me without body, i
yearn to hide and too to be
looked for!

someday i will part my own
sea too.

the draped mirrors.

"it is not uncommon to relate to women, in an urge for intimacy, true or apochryphal circumstances of one's boyish past. i must have told her once about the mirrors and thus in 1928 i prompted a hallucination that was to flower in 1931. now, i have just learned that she has lost her mind and that the mirrors in her room are draped because she sees in them my reflection, usurping her own, and she trembles and falls silent and says i am persecuting her by magic.
what bitter slavishness, that of my face, that of one of my former faces. this odious fate reserved for my features must perforce make me odious too, but i no longer care.
"

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

dear door.

where are you internet girlfriend? i need you!
you look polished, imaginary-
"there's nothing to it" is how you seem.
what keeps you safe is what keeps us apart.

perhaps i'm in a cage. perhaps
you're all in the cage.

one of us needs to be caged,
for i am a wolf, if i think i can

be what i think. i think i can walk
across land, if that's what it takes

to speak of distance. and so

i walk on water
when i get tired,
instead of lowering my head.

ahead of my life i walk on water.
sometimes i just want to chop myself down and scream at the people i see, "give me you! give me you! you have parts that i don't have!" it is unbearable to be around anyone. actually everything is unbearable

gaily clad sadness.

kosmos first spring black which
like light too
constitutes.

black is not a cloud of death,
necessarily
black can be a swans neck,

craning toward a seeing.

fill the room with black
some elements have not been named yet.

the ground is open.

inside there is a backward-dive.

black takes my heart and smiles at it.

i thought of them beside each other,
and i cried because i knew how to.

love does not know me but love sure
do have me.
willfully i go along with what it is.

is it deceiving? let it. in it is
some likeness of myself that i want to keep.

you're about to be vulnerable.
tissues. tissues. who's got tissues.

cry because it allows movement.
water wants to be such- and everyone lives

to be what they really desire underneath
all fluff.
water desires to move, refusing

to run out of itself

bathe this face. bathe
and bring it gratitude.

kosmos expects you to execute all the colors

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

to new theresa who i know is out there.

i looked up, and saw it.
whether it was the atom bomb or

the face of a god, smiling or sulking

it does not matter- i felt and that's it.

i suckled on this that was felt,
and the milk synthesized

into a name not yet given
to it.
i felt.
it meant something was real.

it was in the clouds, not yet interpreted-
mere shapes between shapes

without reasons entwined. they gathered,

bundled as if a storm would be, directly
above my face. i opened my mouth and

never closed it; took a deep breath.

something was new but did not
tell me so.
it was cunning. i would later on know.

with candles around in the
empty big room of my dreams, where in

the middle i pulsate, quietly; a normal
rate- i sat on those clouds- auspicious

cushions.
the above was still above. it sang.
its song was pathology. i am devoted
to pathology. the sound of music

is pathology. my religion is this.

and as is known, religion
is humbling. also, as we all know,

morals are not within this, for
religion is simple.

it's to keep the mind at ease. the faces of god

fold and fold and fold
like one thousand origami cranes.

i have one. it came out of where i came from
right along with my birth-marked crying face.

i obey
this bond, often blindly.

virgin, virgin, you who lift my face- what is it
the clouds will look like today?

i see they are abundant.
from abundance- abundance.

virgin, these other souls with names
are weird to me. their prophecies
don't seem to be the same as mine. even

in this own self
is a bigshot other self.

it picks up accents and drops them
for new ones. it's a thief.
it's a plagiarist. it steals from people
without saying they're the source
of all it says and does.
it is as if the clouds have climbed downward. i do have

success with growing things.
indeed, it is as if the clouds have climbed
right into me, like
tendrils of ivy.

out of my mind and out of my mouth, every last offering.
come.
so clear is the path.
you, saturate. make yourself in everything. what is

is whole.

great power, great responsibility, and a secret gods damned ingredient (but made from love, natch).


i know this is gonna sound cray-cray and kinda cheesy, but i've totally found myself through google image search (i was looking up what uncle ben looked like, because i was pretty sure he's black, and i was wondering if it was somehow racist-like of me when little prince texted me he was making "cannellini beans and uncle ben", and i asked if uncle ben was an uncle tom. but perhaps i should instead now be concerned my best friend eats people.)
two gang symbols of indeterminate meaning under either eye. a gang-banging white boy! *or a mime*. or...a blood? a crip? oh, it's a blood, isn't it.

said the nihilist, because the nihilist is hesitant about asking questions.

it was my birthday and i was drunk. i was to turn twenty-one.
nietzche and i were sitting at a table somewhere- perhaps
at a dive. perhaps in a park. perhaps it was both.

it does not matter. it was night-time.

up in the sky was the stuff that's there.
and nietzche pointed upward. his pointing finger
rised like bread in an oven. i stared until 

i shrugged.

he said, "that's the answer to your question."
question? what question? i replied.
what a sage. he smiled and said, "any question."

the godhead in the quivering sea-light reflected on.
he is born.

man and woman came true because god drew them
and they opened boxes.

out of boxes came more.

the dreams of man and woman that came
out of the boxes
became the godhead.

i point to that knowing, because i turned wise.
it is that.

those?
that.

the coordination between the godhead and
the people tightened-

the dreams of man and woman
opened the box of hope.

they held so closely partly because
they were scared, but mostly

because they couldn't help it.

at some point my life was saved-

like how i imagined it all along,
a great bow shooting me outward.

an astral projection.

across the seven seas and past
the pictures of pluto which fail to impress me.
past kuiper, past

the voyager.
it is my torso which lead me,
for what it is which therein resides

is a heart.

and thus the nihilist spoke-
in the foreground, answers to answers. reverberations.

i am in love with shapes.

allow me to spoil what was going to be the epigraph of my manuscript i've failed to check up on for months.

"...this is a dream, a pure diversion of my will; and now that i have unlimited power, i am going to cause a tiger."

mr rogers, all the celine dion songs are from me for you.

it really speaks levels when someone who works so closely with children doesn't scream "pedo" these days*. omg, remember that special episode of arthur in which he was featured as a very special guest? yes, i do. omg, remember trying to figure out which character on arthur you would be? yes. did you ever figure it out? no. my life is still a vision quest. online tests do say my spirit animal is a spider. i like that. i like spiders. but like, i like to think my spirit animal is paul walker, too. it's a joke betwixt little prince and i.

*within my lifetime.

apparently, i've already read my favorite anne sexton book.


(featuring my new girlfriend, nancy. she's a little overpriced cam-whore from home depot. i can't wait to go back there and *shoplift*.)

that's the story of my life.

"i feel so bad; just so bad. she's got nice tits and she's been through so much trauma to boot." -dreamspeak (last night).

Monday, July 13, 2015

shark one shark two.

stretch, great abandon,

past restraint- fuck that. in the cold-wonderings,
restless wake-state, obliged
to be gracefully suited.

a graceful suit is grey
and just a little war-torn-

never helplessly snapped in half.

do not snap. remain sinuous.

look out, if you to be
on the look-out- whose telescope with?

i'm using a sunken eye
is whose telescope.

it is wild. wild with eye, wild with seeing.
blink once but immediately

leave without a trace. never

say goodbye. there will always
be new day of the week, awkward

growth mistaken as innovations

and you will never be okay with them.
never say goodbye.

you'll wind up like snow-white,
all dead inside.

what is it in the world i am to change?
is that what is in the world?
am i the change?

i see reflections of light.
if i see reflections, do i see

because reflections are of me?

that melancholy is for no prophet.
drag the air and swing it into bed, then leave it.
cold, cold is the cold burn.

what do the other
bodies think along the way during union of two?

do they think about simple thinks?
do they still believe they are two?

i have two hundred teeth. the first one
is the beginning of the planet. the
unfathomable is where the minds are drifting

it goes to their dreams in a heartbroken unit.
it goes to storage.
it goes to dumpster-filled shitholes.

they become dumpster-divers
and think there's something wrong with it.

there's got to be more to bodies. my eyes are wild
and open about it.
as is so. as is so.

threats
are not threats

if i go everywhere
without it crossing my mind,

i am a shark. an old shark.
i am a bullet

that's not yet been an object.

i work tirelessly. missions; i've got missions covered.
epoch, epoch, i demand you do not stick.
in you i have discovered
that meaning can sometimes be a trick.
well-meaning
as well
can sometimes be a trick.

a veil of illusion- we've all worn this thing,
decorative
stupid. those of allegiance-
what is it that they think? i wonder about life

from their eyes.

stage left: speak. speak. i once
was furious, these
animal scratches on me i'd sicced
are not something other than
what they turned out to be.

documentations.
this show and tell is pretense. as it goes,
show and tell is pretense as is.
i misunderstood an assignment again somehow.

i get told to sit aside for failing again.

in the gravity of the familiar
i go to be paralytic.

i want to find out false-sentiments
are a skeptic's invention. a diversion.
a prop for a puppeteer.
what cannot be true
is something that you can undo. yes? yes?

speak. speak. get rid of me. remove of me.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

open letter to fancy psychiatrists.

a plan of action which i thought up still isn't working. this plan is, simply, to get the proper treatment for my mental condition. this morning, i upped the ante: the superidealist-self now wants the *best* help and refuses to settle for anything less.
the nearest city- an expensive place- is where i decided i would find the best help. heck, my current stepmother, from whom i've estranged, is a psychiatrist stationed in this city. if i'm related to one kinda, how hard could it be to get my paws on a psychiatrist who would suit my needs? how hard could it be to obtain therapeutic treatment that would also suit my needs? inevitably, i've searched the living bi-jesus out of the net.

apparently, psychiatrists from said nearest city don't like, ever accept insurance.
this partly explains the homelessness problem (prepare yourselves as i delve further into this subject)- therein, those pesky street people who mutter their lives away. the truth is, those street-people and i don't live a reality responsive to scientific evidence. if you're anything like me and you gauge according to natural selection, in order to survive you totally have to respond to scientific evidence- the shared stuff.
unfortunately, a lot of us don't have a say in the matter. often, it's because we cannot *afford* it. for-profit help is really, really expensive. i'd certainly be streetpeople-y myself if i didn't have my mother. because i'm sick as shit and not getting anywhere as far as progress goes.

yesterday, i did accomplish a goal that i had wished to accomplish yet wished not to accomplish at the same time. this "yes and no at once" i experience is quite textbook-like of what is known as dialectical reasoning. i don't know how to deal with this incessant maladaptive way other than by "splitting". splitting is how i move through life.
i imagine "splitting" as a baby is being torn slowly, roped between two trucks driving in opposing directions. i offer a g-rated version: splitting like how string cheese does. ain't that cute?
how i resolve this is by choosing the one extreme of the two extremes that seems it would offer a catharsis.

the goal i accomplished yesterday was the following: i threw that gourd that's been in my kitchen for like a month. i'd been fantasizing about throwing it through a window.
i didn't throw it through a window, though. instead, i went outside with it and threw the gourd against my oak tree, kali. it took several tries to smash the gourd. i scared myself, not because what i was doing was indicative of something being "off", but because i felt rather violent and horrifically mean about how hurtful i am. i hurt that poor gourd, and i hurt kali, my oak tree. my *giving tree*.
when the gourd finally smashed after several tries, i took "him" in my arms, sobbing and cradling him and apologizing to the poor thing. sometimes you just don't know about the plausibility of an animist personality until you smash a gourd against a beloved tree.

earlier that evening, i had sobbed profusely in the hallway. the hallway is where i go when i'm being brave enough to leave my personal headquarters- generally, as an attempt to save myself from say... a hurricane...or panic disorder (same thing); or maybe i'm being all hellbent on a desire to melt into the carpet if i feel myself melting but very, very slowly, so i need to speed it up by freaking myself out with leaving my headquarters.
i'd seen my mother cry two other times during my life. yesterday was the third.
during this minor catastrophe, i wound up asking my mother to kill me. it struck me as a solution. kill me, i don't have a life or a personality or happiness. i want freedom but i am a deer in headlights when it comes to that kind of thing. every thought hurts. i don't possess anything *meaningfully*. i'm a ruined thing of compromises and of zero chance at self-love. a condition in a shell. a test tube baby that wasn't supposed to happen. an accident. an alien among aliens among aliens. just fucking kill me for peter's sake. it would like, be nice of someone to do that. duh.

fancy psychiatrists, how does this make you feel?

i digress.

my emotional mind wants to say rich people make unconscionable choices, but my logic disagrees with what my emotional mind says. that logic would like to present, in the most idyllically titled way one can, as the "the marie-antoinette complex". the marie-antoniette complex denotes being conditioned into a rich person's life all around, unknowing of other ways.
of course, if you have been conditioned into such, you aim for wealth. however, consider someone like myself, a poor person, knows that social status doesn't mean much. it's not because i'm poor and humbled by my poorness or my poor upbringing. it's because people are easy to understand. i'm a person, after all. therefore, you can do it, too!
people with a lot of money are of a differing socioeconomic level than i. but like, that's about the only difference. i imagine people of all socioeconomic sorts are capable of the same knowing, this is because conditioning doesn't end. it's constant, always subject to change.
there is more to life than socioeconomic status, unless you're one for class consciousness. that's a different story.
calling anyone unconscionable is indeed absurd as we all believe we are doing what is right. it's also mathematically erroneous, as well as emotionally bitter. intellectually, knowing this isn't going to get me anywhere i know this sort of thing ought to be dropped. i know very well that if you're not mindful of what you have, than you're not growing. perhaps one is not willing, or perhaps one is not ready or prepared or matured- these are all valid. *but it is also valid when one knows more than what you have without objectifying the other people and what they have*.
if you have a doctorate, perhaps you're smart and educated. if this is the case, than perhaps you have the capability of intellectualizing varying socioeconomic statuses happen for different reasons but they are reasoned all the same. us poor people struggle as much as the rich do, but in different ways. it isn't an absurd thing, on either end. so i want to remind those struggling in the face of a marie-antoinette complex- of what exists outside of versailles: us. we need you guys. i personally don't want to kick your ass or anything, but like, i'm not going to lie, i desperately need your help.

not being able to find a single state-of-the-art psychiatrist who accepts insurance is a major bummer. on a similar note, not being able to get into the state-of-the-art therapy program i need for the benefit of my well-being sucks way, way worse. all because of money. is it possible i will ever feel better?
you hear about suicide and you hear about homicide. you hear that people who commit these extreme acts suffer from psychiatric illnesses. is the narrative so one-dimensional? we're just fucked up and that's that? i refuse to give into that stigmatizing; sensationalizing. let's look a little deeper into this: like, why *don't* we do anything about our extreme tendencies? why are we ridiculous? why do our lives suck so bad?
allow it to slap you across the face when i type "we can't afford to move past it. and you can afford to look away.. you have other things that are more fun to afford."

the suffering of the mentally ill human being is quite mysterious and often neglected. additionally, it's never cut and dry. it's of the brain.
i can outstretch my leg and see a bruise, unaware of how the heck or when that happened, but i accept that it's there. that is so beautiful. however, i can't even accept my migraine condition. i can't bare to accept my epilepsy diagnosis- i feel like i just made up my seizures to "get attention". my mental illness? *forget it*. i always find myself believing i'm just making it up, "malingering", and just being lazy and stupid. my therapist argues against this as much as my neurologist does. i can't outstretch my brain and see what's there. i do know that if something is happening in my brain, that's a very scary threat. wow, the most vital and precious force of energy known to man is all bruised up and stuff? sounds pretty unbelievable. and i can't see it. my sensory intake is overloaded; on fire, but i cannot generate acceptance of anything being wrong with my brain. i can't see it. it's not there.
everyday, i attempt to meditate on my conscious mind. i want to step away from the spinning and the heaviness of my thinking. the more i try, the more i sink. the more it hurts. i feel stuck. stuck in fucking gravel, surrounded by claustrophobia.

i don't give a fuck that life is not fair. but i do care that epidemics exist, such as the ones i suffer as a result of being a component of, because the street people and i *can't afford help*.

fancy psychiatrists, please find it in your juicy, beautiful minds to take care of us who need you just as much as anyone else. our minds are just as beautiful as anyone elses. we don't *want* them to deteriorate. our lives are at stake.

all the best and definite xo,
peach.

Friday, July 10, 2015

there was a cat, cat
in a tree
that wasn't too tall
i asked if he was okay
did he need firemen
he said he was fine
said his name was psycho
then he turned to a smile
but only his teeth showed
and i followed his exit
and all his entrances
i said please do not leave me
please do not leave me

my name is psycho too
and i'm following you
hoping to evade all the
time restraints
and the full moon
and the nice sunsets
all the stuff you're

supposed to just be impressed by
and nothing makes an
impression or captivates
at least me

what on earth is this
sad end-of-earth song
lay on the bed, say
i'm going to meditate
inside i sink further under
turn to my side
like a post-coital white boy
declaring a nap

doze like a shark
because i'm a shark
hear the outside
as much as the inside

feel every vein
as if bundled branches
are strengthening in numbers
and are warning me
they're going to burst out of
my body

the human body
that will be a tree
fractal energy is energy
and the psycho cat
will look at me
inclined to sit on me

perhaps
if i yearned for something else
other than watching my spinning
like the rings of a planet-

a planet once dreamed of
who thinks from my stomach
which is my center-

if i put a stop to the desire
i would feel so much better

i would not be understood
but learn how to
understand
and always have something
new to do

and not have to worry
about prioritizing or
responsibilities

showering sometimes
is asking too much

this swan is on fire
this swan is on fire

something is crying
taking off its underwear
yanking off sewage
having a hard time
uprooting newborn maple trees
losing friends
and having sex
without discernment
between pleasure/pain.

all the lights are off, but
somebody is home
and this is the picture
of my home
with myself in it.
so like, when am i gonna puke? i mean, not from abdominal pain and stuff. just, like, just puke because i feel so sick? i think that's the moment when the demon is going to come out. i'm not gonna squish him/her or anything, just put him/her in a critter cage and declare it "mine". surely, there's super-duper loads of guinea pig litter in the garage. everything else from my childhood is in there. including whatever few secrets i haven't puked yet.

by the way, *it's a beautiful day out*. if you're anything like me, freak the fuck out over how you're not doing anything about it. and clean. and clean. and clean. and regress. brush your teeth at some point. watch half of a movie. realize that it doesn't matter so much that people love you, but that you are unable to love yourself. hope to god that if i were to ever be exorcised, it would work. and i would puke.

i had a baby.

baby glisten (courtesy of makemebabies.com):


did a background check. either this site is a total lie, or all babies really do look the same.



Wednesday, July 8, 2015

he totally haunts.

the health inspector on bob's burgers is named hugo. when are people ever named hugo like how my sweet boy was?! oh hugo, my spastic crazed boxer boy, i miss you and the sexy penis-shaped spot on your chest. i hope you are a bird now. you only flew away.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

ancient indian burial ground.

i had to nix this, because the line breaks, *misprints, grammatical errors, and other mistakes of this ilk were so overwhelming that i realized i invest close to the whole of what patience i have to un-mistaking my mistakes. seriously, dude? that is so devastating to what's left of the part of me that's still proud to be human and bravely lets their mistakes be, because mistakes are beautiful. j/k mistakes need to die god won't let me into heaven if i don't make myself appear orderly

if anyone is actually interested in what was here, i deleted it without saving a back-up file. so like, i don't have my old poems memorized. but if you're either a fed or a hacker or both, go ahead and waste your time i guess? shruggity shrug shrug?

Sunday, July 5, 2015

bogus answers to often wondered about topics.

http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/explainer/2008/08/do_white_people_really_come_from_the_caucasus.html

versus


yeah, i tots stole that from reddit. go ahead, reddit. eat me. it would take millions of you.


inevitably, we all talk about ourselves.

hi! [omitted] thank you for writing this to me, because it shows a degree of trust, which is an honor. trusting people means either going through loopholes or going right to the source of ones demons and slicing their jugulars because during the moment you need to trust someone so bad that you surrender to it. it brings us all a step further when we can do it. : )
concerning [omitted]...i've felt like a failure before, during, and after doing it. it just reinstates the fact that i feel like a failure. it's a really upsetting thing for people to talk about, and for a lot of people to even tolerate listening to- because it's physical. physicality is intimate. people who don't do what we do don't quite get how people can internalize anger to a violent degree. and you know what? good for them. good for them that they don't have to get it. if they did, perhaps that'd be a problem- we'd find out THEY'RE suggestible too, and than we'd ALL watch each other suffer in the same exact ways, and never get anywhere with the epidemic!
please keep in mind you are a warrior. i watched a documentary on the bombings of hiroshima and nagasaki a few weeks ago. it is called "white light/ black rain". one woman in the documentary said that she had the courage to live, while others have the courage to die. it meant a lot to me- it meant either way, you have courage. i am not a coward or an idiot for developing personally while experiencing life, especially how intensely i do. it means i have the courage to live. this is positive- meaning, it adds to the quality of my well-being.
life is really weird, we acknowledge this. in regard to what that woman said in the documentary, i thought about my own experiences...how is it evident i possess a courage to live? well, for one, i survived a bunch of things i wouldn't have if i had the courage to die. another point i can make is i feel disturbed when other people act out on their courages to die. those are the only deaths around that i feel sorrow over- like, "this shouldn't of happened. this shouldn't happen." i guess i can empathize, but i can't get myself to die.
and what's most ridiculous about all this existential stuff is that my reaction toward it all comes down to this: my sense of pride is hurt. *that's it*. it totally sucks that it's so simple, but i can laugh so hard at it, too. the ego is that cunning. like, that's it. it's all a pride thing. my unhappiness with the way i have to live while i continue to wait for my symptoms to dissipate, my confusion over the abstractions of these symptoms, their unpredictability and my unpredictability, my embarrassment....i think they really take a toll on my sense of pride- and pride is the gateway to all the hell that breaks loose.
pride is merely an ego-attribute. but there is a light: the more i actualize pride, the more likely i believe i am going to be able to develop patience for the waiting. because i am alive. and the courage of being alive holds meaning to me. it *gives* to me. if i feel like jumping out of a window of a tall building- it's still the same, just the opposing perspective: i don't have the courage to die- which is negative, meaning i know it would *take away* from me and i'm just not into it. i don't mean take *me* away from all my stuff i can't stand, but it would take away my possessions, which i'm clearly not willing to dispossess, otherwise i just would.
death (or "biological cessation" as i prefer to put it, as i don't even really believe we ever like, die for good) would only set back a process that isn't in my own hands.
if i have the courage to live, i don't need to the courage to die. i need to move past my hang-ups with it. the courage to die goes against natural selection. and really, nobody ought to be put through a life wherein they experience a courage to die. it seems like a terrible affect of a genetic glitch to me.
and if i am to ever experience the desire to die, i have no choice but to bounce back from it. if i am alive, i am learning. i wait, and i learn from it. it can seem unbearably subtle. but keep waiting. you will continue to possess more of what you need to survive. because you have the courage to do it.

Saturday, July 4, 2015

human rights are stupid and i hate them.

peace offering.

growing up takes considering- choosing a stance
on time. do i want to turn

into my so-much-potential? one day-

perhaps i'd like to wind up
wrong-handed-

each painchord dictated by i don't know who but
they'll gaslight my ass, staring at me
without interruption, manipulating

their every fiber of intelligence
toward a cause i find worthless- every brilliant liar is terrible.

and i'll jump
when they tell me to jump- no longer
because i just don't hold still. there will be
incentive this time.

all effort is toward the cause
of preparing for the future- not for
the future itself, but for
the escapism of hope

if it can be quantified.

for the anomaly of nature

gravitating toward

nature-atmosphere
is the best a prospect of hopes/dreams can get-
i can't

just ask for something and
get it. you has to know

your motivations for asking for it
beforehand.
only the hungered bloodthirst

for instant
gratification on behalf of
the willing end asks for it.

dear

empirical nihilism, this is what i'm
wearing: that

lucid dream we all hunt. it's not
just you.

the tree is old and knows just as much
shadow-taste,

identifying it or not.

and so does god. god and the
aum shanti, shanti, shanti-
a lecture on a bent knee- be in love
and carry yourself that way-

peaks are obvious. what's wrong with you
if they aren't?
don't you carry
a spare pair of stilts around?

i don't have
a green thumb

not even for the necessary growth
i'm a dumbass
what can i say

i hold growth in too high regard
and the stems
crane down inspecting me like i'm

one of many phases of the moon-
are you about- are you
about to change again? will it-
will it be resplendent?

them on me- of eyesearssensory
capabilities- and i'm

not
going
to

screw it up
this time.

i'm gonna ask for it.

and i'm gonna ask for it
like i'm going to confession. a fuckingfuneral-

purging secret-tissue
pickled inside a pickled mind, setting the venom free

to the road traveled often-
unremarkables untold. my favorite

method to secondguess- my favorite

mystery-matter to life. whose secrets are these? secrets
that are no longer mine.

happy fourth of july.

missing the fireworks because the sky takes precedence
missing the fireworks because i clean my glasses less often since i found out that you're not supposed to do it with your clothes
missing the fireworks because the law won
missing the fireworks because i totally still haven't taken my case to the united nations
missing the fireworks because i'm hiding in my bedroom
missing the fireworks out of respect for the vets
missing the fireworks out of respect for dogs
missing the fireworks in order to not tamper with my high grade coolness
missing the fireworks because they don't shut the fuck up
missing the fireworks because the country is based on a foundation of lies
missing the fireworks because the country was stolen from people who treated it well
missing the fireworks because i'm still confused about the new terminator installment
missing the fireworks because i'm recovering from my caterwaul-style panic attack earlier
missing the fireworks because i sound like lady gaga when she was mimicking edie sedgwick's voice
missing the fireworks because i'm one to gibe
missing the fireworks because i'm stubborn
missing the fireworks because i protest easily
missing the fireworks because i just looked out the window and accidentally saw one
missing the fireworks because sentiment is a diversion from what the government is really up to
missing the fireworks because i can smell them from here just fine
missing the fireworks because i know what's illegal and fireworks are
missing the fireworks because i feel worse when i go out there
missing the fireworks because i'm too used to my brain
missing the fireworks, my brain is appalled by overstatements
missing the fireworks, my brain is fried
missing the fireworks, i could just listen to my brain
missing the fireworks, i'm listening to L7
missing the fireworks, spirits are showing up in my paintings

the kid that wouldn't die.

this truth is without luster: i am
bored.

something is shiftless, pressuring
the self into irreparable
wounds-

where rejections are sacred. new languages
manifest themselves there,

picked and picked

until only bareness remains.
it forgot its place until
the very second it was the last thing left- this moment,
it is obvious to me, is the beginning of death-

overzealous to interpret "real" movement.

it remains
hush-hush about what "real" means to itself-

real being the impossible visualization.

it isn't home. it is not a thing of my home.
i am not ready to step out
on my own.

this immune system believes in weakness.

still i'm not gone.

god, god, leave me alone.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

inner teenager: "shall i rot standing up?"

"get up or you're going to rot in bed."
the depressive march; stomping on
buried suns- i'll fool myself into my
personal alchemy
so long as there remains a ring to it- that
symphonic navigation- mine, sonorous, following

the dots of needle-point sized lies, i've got
millions- this thought right here
seems quit false and decided by deliberate
and mean, mean me- the mason jar

the stillborn resides in
and the fluids inside that it
was forced to adapt to; to depend on.

me, me, me, being awful. fucking up
at grief.
puddles of wormhole backends, tunnel rats,
al'qaeda spelled backwards
hyper vigilance- determining finality of

panic,

bursts of inability to breathe- like the little
engine that could- those puffs of coal-clouds

without the windows being open i would
die of pollution.

not for the plant food i swallowed today
or the rubbing alcohol on my freshly

wounded body parts,

but because of the exhalation of um way too much carbon dioxide

when i have too much oxygen in everything. CHOO-CHOO.
(btw, i'm insecure enough that i had to double check that we exhale co2 and inhale o, just like how i double check everything....and i found this a good read: http://www.quora.com/If-we-exhale-carbon-dioxide-and-inhale-oxygen-why-would-mouth-to-mouth-resuscitation-be-effective-for-a-person-who-is-not-breathing)

then, they stop. now what? find pain
some other way.

i dialed that texting-hotline and said
"i can't stop breathing fake breath."
"how long have you been doing this?"
"my whole life."

panic disorder is having panic attacks and
in between those living in fear
of going outside
by myself because
everything hurts my goddamn feelings and i could

be fucking crazy in public if i'm not careful.
and than i'll go on to convince myself, effortlessly: "i'm not really panicking, i'm just

making myself look that way because i'm an attention fiend."

a strange dog

growled at me for the first time in my life yesterday.
she wasn't even looking at my face...more like
my center- which is a black heart.
this is what she said, translated into my familiar

english: "DOGKILLER! DOGKILLER! MAY YOU BURN IN HELL!"

panic disorder seems to be the
exception to the stigma of mental illness-
everyone is saying they've

got panic attacks these days. (this leads me to

my dissertation titled "the mentally ill complex".)

then again, everyone totally claims they have ocd (actually,
they say THEY ARE ocd itself). at this point, i'm pretty sure

i've got ocd rammed up my ass too
and that eating disorders *are* ocd- the smartest mental disorder.

furthermore, people say they totally have bipolar- WHAT?-
you do not want that shit. they say they've got manic moments

all the time.
which offends me, except

it is true that a lot of people are fucked for life
by the bipolarity of their neuron functions

so you never know. they could have one of the bipolar spin-offs,
although i don't get their non-bipolar diagnoses,
because they are *treated by the same exact meds*.

i call my personal dichotomy my "chemical complex".
btw dyk-there isn't a single fucking complex listed
on wikipedia today that isn't about

wanting to fuck my parents or stepparents or
killing my children. so far that i've read.

whether i like it or not i have all of these in the
disgusting fucking portmanteau of my psyche.
like *sybil*.
everything comes out depending on where i am
and where my head is at.

fakefakefakefakefakefakefake like sybil
and her psychoanalyst bitchlover, and the okayness

of hiring a little girl to be tortured in the movie.
SHE WASN'T ACTING. SHE REALLY WAS BEING
TORTURED. SHE PROBABLY KILLED HERSELF.

I MIGHT AS WELL

WATCH THAT SCENE IN JURASSIC WORLD
WHERE THE BRONTOSAURUS DIES IN SLO-MO AGAIN

AND THINK ABOUT MY DOG DYING,
EXCEPT NOW HE REALLY IS DEAD

AND HIS GHOST HASN'T BARKED AT ME FOR FOOD YET.

btw dyk again- the real sybil died alone and poor and didn't have
multiple personality disorder

but she was a sick fucking artist and she collected dolls.