Monday, August 17, 2015

happy new year.

************. ****88888888888888888. iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.

i do not like holidays or their full moons. i only like the wolves- of course,

i'm no where near them.
i do not like anything. i do not like contributing. sometimes,
you don't have to. i don't have to do anything.
i don't want to. i'm not going to,

asshole.

i do not
care for being a productive member of society. i do not

like the words "productive", "member", or "society". do i

look square as fuck?

do i look like my ass doesn't hurt? because it does.
my asshole itself
burns.
i could never get a hang

of how to do anything but burn.

i like to melt down. i like to do it
in unassuming places, where any sane bit of me left

is so sure the manager is "going to have to ask [me] to leave".
proceeding, i like to saunter to the

highway right there, and stare at it.
suck my dick. i am staring at that fucking highway,

and i'm thinking about running into it, arms
flailing and stuff. shitting my pants.

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii*ii*jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii*********************i   i.

when you live on a desert island, you're allowed three things.
for me, one day, a genie appeared. oogey boogie surprise! said he. and, of a sudden,

my emotions were normal-people emotions.
i asked him
if he'd care to fuck. (not that i was horny; my womb was lonely). he realized this could be
constituted as sexual harassment, but i since it's been made clear
i don't believe in sanity or insanity, it's okay.
he let it pass.

what is it that you wish? well, of course, things to survive with.
i'd like a pair of scissors, instructions on how to use them, and a drill sergeant
to get me to read the instructions on how to use the scissors..

very well.

but it turned out i had matches leftover from the plane crash which
preceded this and i lit the instructions on fire.

the drill sergeant, of course, screamed his head off at me: you're not
allowed to have that! give me that! give me the scissors too!

but there was a dog too. firmly, i said 'come'. the dog came, and ate
the drill sergeant.

then it was just me, my dog, our weak memories, our scissors, and
our matches. we went to explore the forest beyond the shore.

pretty flowers were everywhere. one was the cure for leukemia. every flower
was a cure for something as pure as themselves.

one flower was
zeus' father trapped in a beautiful flower. thumbelina was inside

fucking him. she was zeus' mother.
i chose
to tolerate it. we mustn't ask for tolerance- we must choose tolerance

and
we must do whatever comes to mind
and violate our personal values

because people from other parts of the world are so ashamed and feel
guilty for stuff they can't help either but they have it

so much worse
than me. anything
in order to tolerate.

if there's a scent of something not being present,

bring them my falsities
and feed them these falsities.

disguise my demands in the form of little angel wings that seem pretty
to persuade them

and bring them to me with apples in their mouths.

i am all of the rainforest
and all of its cities being microscopic

at once, and i need help getting things for myself. your soul

will move on. it's your head. your mantis head

while we're mantis-fucking. give me your head
i'll get sick of myself while it's that which i feast on.