Sunday, August 30, 2015

irrevocable empty-place- all else a hideout from
it, no matter how scary.
(that is, except, the fear of "what" one
really "is".) safety words don't exist.
(they do when a man and his lover take

the concept of the soul out on one other).
even existence doesn't exist.

and the depth of it goes on forever, but is an

illusion- so no, even
"stop" doesn't exist. at varying points

during the day we think, "co-exist! co-exist

with yourself
and all the other shit!" but no- 

the end-of-the-day hypothesis
is the one thing that counts ("is this
schizophrenia? i know, it's stupid that i care"), accompanied

by attempts of communication- all,

barely disguised cries for help: usually capricious

bastardizing which seems bold and fun
during the present state

of consciousness (might exist). the escape from this truth


the sole character trait
identified with. the a-ha moment- brilliant, gleaming. i

fuck him all day, in the backseat

of a car in mid daylight, without protection,
without a safety word (thus without conceptualized
love), without mercy, without stopping

until death in ecstasy. it's pretty straightforward

that i am not his flower, and he is not my honey bee.

no narcissism allowed;
no pretense. i don't want a big house.

i don't want a bed of roses. i

am not into good memories, nor
hopes for the future- nor do i
wish to give up on gaining up on them. what it is

is we are hunters. i am after eating my own heart,

then throwing it up on the silver screen, and saying "there".
in the script, i don't die from this. rather, i'm
re-born; puke-aversion all bye-bye.

"i am bulimic again," beloved born-again, at long last, cries the toxins
that are supposed to expel themselves
when one cries

until clouds form beneath
on a day when i can't interpret them.

but the tears are tears of fucking joy. happily ever after we are, because
at last
a suitable

life story. i hunted and got it.