Friday, January 29, 2016

you taught me everything i'd need
in order to be better

i've forgotten it all

Thursday, January 28, 2016

submit to the alphabet of fetishes.

a is for winding up in alcatraz.
b? breaking and entering.
c is for refraining from using the word "cunt" only around my mother.
d is for reforming people who make their money off of diamonds whose foundations in the trading-among-people industry began in kidnapping and slavery.

come on. sing your stupid song. i do it all day long.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016


hi, this is the queen. once upon a fairy tale we kept heterosexual men on short leashes because heterosexual women in heat were more likely to long after these men, these things they seemed unable to have; women were more likely to throw change at these boys. this is how power-hungry women and their boyfriends made their livings. together. holy matrimony.
it is important that you pussy-whip. keep my legacy alive- i am the queen of the whip. without pussy-whipping, i'd consider taking all your boyfriends from you like how some people kidnap fucking children for game. i'd surround myself with your former pet dogs, sniping the collars of their leashes off of them, tossing them into whatever fucking pit of fire i want.
your dogs would frolic. you might not like that.

my informal name is pussy and i'm wetter than anyone else. my smell brings people into my voracious pit of hunger. i am a huge green plant.
i lose friends as if they're dead of a sudden. so much for indifference toward death. it turns out i keep losing friends to their choices in life. often, a pussy junior is keeping them tight on a leash; sometimes not even that tight, but some males are really just that fucking spineless.
army of pussy juniors? you are everything to my friends i keep losing to life. you better treat them nicely before you send them to the guillotine where they will return to their voracious hunger. in their death, they might eat you alive.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

camel bone (supposedly).

focusing on working hard in one direction, being guided by my own hand to genius (the only way there is). throwing pictures i took on here to evade any consequences neglecting my blog might bring on, such as losing attention.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

my poor baby.

if i'm not religious, but i have a lot of curious thoughts about religion, is there a chance i'll get into heaven? is it like winning the lottery? and then you get a relationship with god and you don't have to worry about not knowing anything about anything except god anymore? santa? santa? can you read minds- are you reading mine?
what does winning the lottery mean- does it mean i don't love the way things were before and now i get to exclaim it? am i expanding on something? what is it on which i expand? you've got it!- my legs are being torn further and further away from each other. fleas nest at the center- at the center is the return of stillness. my soul trying to tolerate my shit and give me a chance. that's where the fucking plague started and you know it, cut the crap. in humanity, there is nothing for us to discover in one another. we are addicted to ourselves which don't even exist. my self is a manipulation probably the government or his friends jammed between the squishy parts of my squishy brain. you like that, don't you? my mind is a manipulation that couldn't have been avoided but nobody had it in me to kill me. my mind is a battle field of weeds and roses trying to choke each other before they reach the sun. this was how i learned what sex was- from the conflict inside the boundaries constructed in my thinkings. still wanna fuck?
my mind does not exist outside of its idea of itself. you know how i live with that kind of thing? with hostile body language..

you sure you're okay with spending your money on my pussy? motherfucker is a viper. it loves to cuddle up around men three times my size and break every bone in their bodies.
masturbation does not exist without them. these guys are my daddies. when we arrive wherever their wives aren't, i tie them to whatever they can be tied to, put my pistol against their temples, and tell them to shut-up while i'm making money, which is always up to me.
emotional attachment does not exist because of them.
once, i was a particle floating off the all-knowing mother of female passive sexuality- a real cookie seller, all right. i am an angel passing by each personal goal in order to have something else, some shit i don't care about. all of this matters to me, watching my shit get flushed down the toilet- the doctor i could've been. the lawyer i could've been. the clown, the dirty dog, the magician i am. i don't want this shit.

in the united states of america, romeo and juliet were a couple of silly kids, real whores. those two tumbled with typicality like bowling pins to the cover of every gossip magazine or every magazine. they killed their bodies quickly with as much pain a person is permitted. in the limelight they sobered up, the way propriety makes sure of it. they met. soon after, they were together. next, married. next day, pregnant. unfortunately they cheated on one another with themselves and both caught each other in the act. (it was easy as neither of them realized they were fucking up).
they divorce. juliet downs poison. romeo follows suit. it is all very complicated and unfortunate- basically they both had cancer somehow. laboratory-born cancer. it's all the fault of our families at the end of the day, is it not?

once upon a time i was a little girl with a big name and no idea what a dream is supposed to be under the rule of the general construct of society which gives us bullshit cancer, spills radioactive substances in our tea. i did not understand the use of adding definition to the dream that is life. this is important to mention.
my parents had to take care of their own shit and, it meant leaving a regret behind in order to set themselves free- they forced themselves into feeling sad as much as they could be couldn't do it.
i was deported to a very conservative kind of country. it would be that i'd be exorcised everywhere i'd go. i'd also get jumped regularly and pushed into this dizzying, blinding self-trafficking circle- if i wasn't drained of all my honey at this rate!- i'd continue fucking however i was fucking before because that's how i happen to come across when fucking. (it's not about fucking somebody. it's about somebody seeing me fuck.)

and i'd been forcing my fucking in the faces of anyone i'd fucking see because i was molested and you better listen up about that and my tits are everywhere now.

one night, early american anarchists ("i'll do what i want")-two dandies: in a dream of mine came a boy and a girl. both had assholes- that's all i could really see, and they were talking and spitting. laughing at me. i really really want to be a guerilla girl when i grow up, so it's important i take the shit.
according to the thinkings of the boy and the girl, they were big believers in chance, following chance, without even knowing this; sitting back and watching the universe, until they tried to manipulate it themselves. then all went to hell.
their names were romeo and juliet. they never fucked anyone before, though they were both thirsty for honey.
juliet got her period at the age of fourteen. she got diarrhea too. she thought it was funny, so she flaunted her soiled panties in the public square. juliet had a very young soul.
romeo woke up pissing himself every day because the content of his dreams were sexual. he was able to exonerate his dreams very easily- not for any other reason than that they got his cock hot and that's all he wanted from life. romeo walked around with a stiff dick everywhere he went. he learned to get into diarrhea, even, which juliet had.
when romeo traced the scent of juliet in the public square, they made the mistake of reading the souls of one another in their eyes before anything else. allowing love to take over your life makes you become co-dependent.
they took lubricated condoms and turned them into balloons. often, they would burst on their faces. they would lick the loose bits and the lubricant off of one another's faces. still in the public square, everyone thought they were homeless- they frolicked in the fountains, unaware of the dirty dirty filth and hypodermic needles laying at the bottom.
these hoodlums did whatever they wanted because they weren't told any other ways of being- of acting. some old friends of mine had warned me about those two. the two that talk about life experience but have nothing to say about what they learned from it. the two that are my parents.

fucking psychotic motherfuckers are my parents therefore me.
they started all the filler information we too have since compelled ourselves to magnify, as in ideals or ideas stuck in our values, crapping out on us, clogging- until they burst in our faces. tumors tumors everywhere.
the solar system exploded to teach anyone happening to listen that you can never have something that can't exist no matter how badly you want it. i fist-fuck myself every night hoping to relieve myself of my dryness. i believe i'm getting fucked like mad, but i'm on top of my shit. i know that this is a passing fuck.

i want the history of my fucks to be erased so i can stop fucking. i want my clitoris to be snipped and stapled up. i want my vagina to be stapled up.
i want my history to drip down my legs out of my underwear with scraping unwanted sound.

i pretended to want it, hurting everyone in the process- because they did not feel my wanting.

i want to pretend everything inside of me, everything i focus on, can come true. i want you to know that the only thing there is to me is playing pretend. i've been lying and hiding as long as i can remember. this is my maker meeting my perspective- "look at this shit." i wouldn't be anywhere without my perspective which i do not care for. the surface of my body is jagged with the history of a mountain. no, i care not to look at everything and call them names. i wish to invite them toward me and look at what they seem to see.
get me out of this chair, at once. i wish to unveil what it is my speculation truly is. we need eyes all over it. we need eyes glued and melting down the body.
without eyes glued and giving attention, this is not clay our hands have touched all over. this is a display of some kind of attention; perspective testing its feelers.

i am coming it barely hurts or matters because i'm dry. i've lost pleasure- i'm sick of it.
i am coming honey. it doesn't matter to the tricks i turn until i stab them. lost count how many times.
i pretend it means something to me. i pretend i am dead.
i pretend i ooze honey.

i want you to die. i want you to pretend you're dead. i'll get my stuff back that belongs to me, stolen long ago, if you do what i say for once.

we will be dead until then. it will be nice.

Friday, January 22, 2016

the poetical character.

"[...] when i am in a room with people if i ever am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then not myself goes home to myself: but the identity of everyone in the room begins to press upon me that, i am in a very little time annihilated- not only among men; it would be the same in a nursery of children.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

share your secrets, helen.

helen, helen, you cunt, curse from god, throw
your army

at me

the soft fabric of your waving sleeve
brushing against my brutalized bastardized face.

helen, of perfect tits, my face is covered
with scarlet letters- the whole
and i'm finding myself having to
escape death time and time again. helen?

you do not have to worry about such a thing. are
you bored? you seem to get away with
everything, without
a scratch. how, helen? how, how, helen, how do you do it?

when i think of a perfect pair of tits they are yours. i find myself
and five thousand flying devils sucking at these tits.

bitch the size of god.


justine. o justine. this is your death poem.
of course they fucking chopped your pretty head
off. you were
wicked, spoiled; a wretched bitch.
but your face, my justine, your face-

the most beautiful of all the faces i've seen
in my day.

i am reading your diary, as you half-instructed me,
when you said you'll stop giving a shit about everything

on earth
when you die.

so it is heaven. so it is heaven you choose. my justine.
you might be wrong.

you'll be in heaven, you used to say, and nothing
nothing nothing nothing else will matter.

justine, you were to remain naive. bless you.

i find myself alive in your diary. i find myself
awakened; so much more than i am, so much more

than i believe myself to be. everything that has

gone on in your bedroom- as if i don't know a thing
or two- has nothing on the revival of your

words in my eyes and nostrils, my lips parting
to speak them as if i'm making love to you. butterflies

in my intestines. butterflies
in my heart, which is definitely the most intenstinal

of all my parts inside.

my breathing is wicked. it's noticeable. the biggest vein
in my dick is pulsating wildly

like how yours in your vagina used to. what did we used

to call her? something like a tiger or a lovely flower.
will i ever be satisfied without you? i suppose,

like you had said.

when i become too weak for life, and thus i die,
i will meet you in heaven

though i believe it will be hell, it will still be heaven
if i reunite with you.

heaven is without a care about anything else, anything
at all
than itself.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

pink skin: when the vultures fly in.

when i think of god i think of zeus. they look exactly alike. you hear me? i'm calling god the god of rapists. zeus was sex-crazed out of his fucking mind and had too much power in my opinion. god's patterns are a little questionable, as well. is that what you want? you're gonna fucking settle for some low-life lazy motherfucking god, and not worship the parts of the world left uncensored by him? is that what you want out of life; that's what you want to look up to before anything else? suit your fucking self. go ahead. but plenty of fish are out there in the sea waiting for me to swim naked with them.
and oh, just to add insult to injury, you know damn well why your parents had you. cut the crap and come clean now. your parents are welcome to convince themselves of whatever but i'm no fool. people have babies "to pass on their legacies"; just in case the parent can't become royalty themselves, they can push what they expect of life on you in order somehow to make their hopes and dreams and prayers come true. parents wants their children to do their dirty work.
pure homicide, mom. thanks for wanting to fuck up and committing homicide, dad.
i was born where it was unfortunate to be born. some places we have food and we don't like it, some places we don't have food and we don't like it. where i was was the wrong place for me. once i was told that if i was born in the deep jungle of africa, i'd be revered as an obvious legendary shaman. in the united states, this is called mental illness- getting pushed around by a lot of bullshit nobody else ever could possibly fucking understand.
the mentally ill see priorities, structure, and purpose as remote concepts floating outside in the deep black-violet space. intangible. stupid. i, for one, am not interested in nor do i see myself ever having a relationship with priorities, structure, and purpose.

in the united states, this is what someone who is mentally ill might feel. they might get in trouble for their views on priorities, structure, and purpose over and over. they might spit on the words priorities, structure, and might not be meant to be the mentally ill understand these words. priority. structure. purpose. vomit. vomit. vomit.
and glorifying, we all know that's an unhealthy thing to do that we're being asked like crazy to do. the tree of life is dead. the tree of life is a waste of time. that old shit-face became skeletal and rotted away when lightning struck it down. it's long gone. i now know what's true.
i was born hungry, in the united states, and i took it out on food. listen to what my parents had the nerve to do: leave me sitting beside two boxes of entenmann's bullshit. i wolfed down every last morsel- shitty doughnuts and shitty cake. i ate my fucking nanny, too; okay, really i ate my fantasy of having a nanny. i felt like a fool eating a chemically and morally wrong cake as well as twelve doughnuts, which taste like nothing if not mistakes. i ate every last lick of radioactive frosting until i weighed nine hundred pounds. my mother is a bitch because she was born hungry. i'm not entertained by her sob story she loves hearing herself talk about- how she was an immigrant that had to wait on a ship for months in order to eat gruel.
she fucking passed it down to me.
but that fucking bullshit-surprise cake and accompanying doughnuts, boy did i want the bullshit with all the lust i could offer to the moment. i needed it so bad (that's what a want is). i want to marry it and crush it with my dick and always destroy the cake no matter how long ago it's been since my cock officially did smother it apart. but right away, i was hating on this husband, the cake, like you're supposed to in real-time. right away.
my marriage is a vague response to something particular that i don't know how to figure out. i don't know how to respond really and i'm afraid of confrontation. it's something deep inside me, deep, deep, very hidden dark thing i'd have to dig out. but i'm afraid of digging it out. i don't want to give up on seeming perfect, ever. so i got married and even had a wedding planner, and professional photographer. "smile!" the photographer exclaims toward us, like we're a circus; like we're posing with a fucking clown.
i smile.
who's the clown, bitch? you work at fucking mcdonalds? you on welfare? bet you're on welfare with twelve kids none of whom you love, none who know their fathers, welfare bitch. i will never need welfare. you know why? it's because i'm high on life and your type kisses my feet. i am an aristocrat now like the madonna.
gee, marriage sure is saying a lot for me. i smile so pretty for my fucking pictures, in a green dress, high as a kite- high on life, that is.
i silently laugh. and that's what i fuckin' wanted; had been holding out for, had been strategically planning my whole life.

isn't it something how what we reveal to each other, and often in each other, only flesh that's deranged, burned and scarred...the parts of us that leave us with nothing left to say except, "kill me."?

and that's how i spend my time poking at the dead, reassuring myself death isn't a problem for me. life never stops because we're all immune to everything that has the potential to harm, such as our own selves. i will not be reduced to anything else. i poke at the bodies, at mom's blue-grey immigrant body that died not all that far from ellis island. she was hungry. i'm suckling mother's teat of black curdled milk. this is the teat i've been taught to avoid, but also the teat i've been taught to suck until milk doesn't exist anymore. i don't know when milk stops being milk. i just know to suck the teat, to have something in my mouth.
you know how it is. i'm enchanted by every last establishment out there. the businesses get bombs dropped on them unless they totally suck, than they stay put. i milk the motherfuckers for what they're worth, even if it costs every last dollar out of my bank account. the stuff i say i'm not into? i'm into it. i fall into the arms of anything that has a pair of fucking arms for me to fall into.

every big-shot painting of scenes from the life of jesus and other biblical scenes were commissioned by the church with their meddling noses snuffing up politics. church and state were sexually in love with each other. they'd give each other lots of flattering and laughable, aristocratic presents. they'd spend all day allowing violence from one another, scratching each others backs and asses, fucking exactly like how both longed to be fucked for centuries. "my wife must be killed," one uttered, solemn, at the same time the other did. sweet, sweet unison.
and so all the wives were killed for being caught in bed with men they found pleasure in: one another. the women had now caught lesbianism of the highest risk strain. dirty sluts.
the catholic church and state were going to get what they wanted out of their people, switching the people of one another. before returning to seedy duties, they'd, bounce around the opulent beds of one another as if in sandboxes. one day one dared to take a shit to leave it to their servants to clean up. it became a ritual. they'd giggle to tears, every time.

i know exactly when it was that they started fucking. it was exactly the time when mary the piss-poor whore was being glorified. many years later she'd be known around the world as marilyn monroe.
there is nothing wrong with being a bastard or being poor or a prostitute and i could be just as glorified in this light.
and mary the sex worker? mary was fourteen and didn't know shit for shat. she was kicked out of her parent's place. all she knew was that she was a bad girl in the eyes of who gives a fuck. of course jesus was a fucking miracle baby- we're all miracle babies. mary has been so glorified out of the denial of everyone in power in vatican city.

who knows whether she was a saint or not. why does it matter? the catholic church, deep down, knows that mary was involved with using her sex to make money. the catholic church knows desperation exists.
lots and lots of young girls today are saints being abused by the rest of society, bullied into believing they need to fuck- they need to scream "fuck"-in order to live.
either the immaculate conception happens every time i birth an idea or each one of them has got a bastard child- just like me. just like my mother and probably just like my father but i wouldn't fucking know because i never met the poor fuck.

marry them young and let them out alone at night. in a tremendous fire of girls singing, bonded in the fire as a choir of saints, a heavenly rush reaches out to the clouds. passion points upward like an orgasm is supposed to- an unpolluted orgasm. not one girl is to be reawakened.
lazarus has been dead for some time. jesus also has been dead for a while.

i pretend to not notice these phantoms, these sloppy ghosts, these broken records. i pretend not to notice because catastrophes don't exist according to the ruling class, according to royalty. it's all in my head. and my head is everything i see around me. i look around me and i see catastrophes piling on top of one another like an enormous orgy. in heaven, all anyone does is have enormous orgies. luxury is what the angels are interested in. watches and whipping boys and russian whips and beautiful skin and perfect tits; small nipples.
these angels are the daughters raised by zeus. they've never heard the word "catastrophe" before but they know under their skin millions of little slaves are doing everything in their power to keep these angels from falling apart. only reason- they're not royalty, and they need to get as close as possible to such.

you know what i have to say to the jaded scope of the world? drop your fucking h-bomb, north korea. see if i fucking flinch. see if i suddenly notice all i have been ungrateful for. see if i feel any less alone. see if i don't get a rush out my skin crumpling and shriveling off of my body. stop talking your shit and get to work. it couldn't possibly be so hard, could it? i'm hard. i'm hard with anticipation and fear. one growling tiger.
i fully understand the policies that are set for me to follow, this culture, are wastelands of shit. complete jokes. put it out of its fucking misery. the wonderful, wonderful people i know? oh, they wouldn't mind going down further. they've been down already for some time. tunnel rats. in and out of my veins they inject themselves then remove themselves, dejected.
but those tunnel rats fuck better than anyone else on the face of the earth.
many, many years ago, i transformed into a growling tiger.

i was baptized but i might've not been because i don't remember.

drop the fucking bomb. we're all already half-dead and crawling, covered in scabs and bruises. just drop your motherfucking bomb and see that it's not going to make me care about you.

"yeah i can't fuck you even though i'd rather fuck you than her," my brother says to me. he's unsure what kind of STD i'm carrying around, willing to spread. we're both chewin' on old bubblegum we've found under the couch, skipping school today.
one day we're bored in front of the television. what's on tv. i don't know. blossom? boy meets world? all the cute boys can suck my asshole. we're doing an awful lot of channel surfing.
he keeps hitting the back of my head. "stop hitting yourself!" he whines each time after hitting the back of my head. i have rope burn on the side of my neck. i have a black eye. i usually use the toilet to pee and do number twos in but i'm sometimes too captivated by the artificial light of the television to bother moving. i've been wearing the same clothes, including diaper, for almost a week. i haven't bathed in at least two weeks. also, i'm depressed, chronically experiencing shock, the response to stress.
i look like someone being physically abused and neglected. and my brother finally puts it out there that he wants to fuck me but he can't because he's on the leash of a jealous girl. "what was the use of telling me so, then, huh? just so you can imagine i'm imagining you fucking me all day long, every time you look at me? that's even worse than fucking your sister. that's gaslighting her."

my brother and i never fucked. he went to war, died somehow. i still long for his cock i saw while he was in the bathroom a few times.

because i don't know that that son of a bitch isn't god, wasn't god, was just as lowly trailer trash as i was and will always be. i'm sucking plastic. i'm wrapped in plastic and i'm in a box, bounded in a box, and i can't breathe, but i can't get sold.
somebody steal my shit. somebody steal my shit.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

the evil turn.

i'll have you know that i'm an orifice of satans', if not the only one. i stand behind plaster you stand in front of staring ahead of yourself. the smell of my sweat cannot be beat. you stand in front of the wall staring straight ahead as well, sneaking out the window, crawling toward desire.
i said to you, in your unconscious mind, don't you think i might know what cruelty looks like? think what you want but you cannot fuck with me.
you ask me how this happened and how come? well, i was sixteen as usual, and i was so bored that i sold my soul. i sold my soul! i was really so fucking bored that i prayed to satan and i said satan give me your dirtiest fucking work. all it cost was my soul- funny thing is that i thought it would cost many souls.
things happened this way because i was bored with my generation and its beliefs about what right and wrong and good and bad are i don't trust it. and i couldn't think of anything else to do. i said i couldn't think of anything other than opening the window to the light of the world. that's what i knew how to dothe light of the world threw itself into my body. i became the light of the whole fucking world, and you want to lick every drip of my old self that begins to do so. it's fucking juicy. juicy like tree sap. juicy like a ripe honeysuckle. juicy like the dew on the edge of a blade of grass.
i cannot shake thoughts of the desert- i think about it all day. i think of being alone in disgrace. i think of fucking the man who believed he could steal my pussy. we fucked all day to release our frustrations; to take shit out on one another.
i think of the things i've given and how what it is they give is pain. i want to believe a million things are happening at once; i believe i am a mother and the fucking anti-christ and every other type of person. i tear off one tit and i pass it to the next girl in line, someone just like me, except she doesn't have any tits at all. maggots eat away at her chest torn open. crud is all crusted up along the edges of former dead places, taking up half of the life form, yes. but no tits at all. this girl is the girl in me that's not fit to marry. she's got an injury. it seems you, too, have got an injury. the traffic is backed up because people are crawling toward the same disaster- been growing out of the sidewalk. shithole looks like it would hurt like hell to be broken by.
this injury looked like someone screaming loudly and hurting like hell. this man and all of the people all meant for their crawling toward disaster to reach a pathetic place. people are desperate. this is the new trails of tears. the people want their fucking injuries. they want them to hurt like hell, for they couldn't find a name of god. innocence is not blind so its eyes get poked out with forks. it had it coming. we take the eyes and we step on them, squish them. we're going to kill him so he would shut-up. the man now without eyes is dead because he always had something to say.
innocence is not blind because it knows exactly when to kill itself. the perfect moment.
that's the problem with everyone else.

it was desperation to continue crawling that left this man sick with thirst for desire, for pleasure, for another dick down his throat, for a pussy smothering his lips, the fat of a girl's ass in his hands.

as he was dying he requested his mouth be filled with sand from a desert.

hot fuckin' musician.

i'm a hot fuckin' musician that is going to go down with club twenty-seven if you don't crucify me now. if you don't, i'm telling you, i will be blowing my brains out. everyone around me will be forced to eat each other's genitals because i wouldn't be able to bless their food and they don't want the organs to remind them. i am beyond loved. i am worshiped. without me, there is no hope for the future.
when i need to eat i will tear you alive. my girlfriend sits wherever you want her to, and we let her know what she's allowed to do. she cannot say "no" or "stop" to anything at all. encourage the next coming with pics of yourselves with your tops off. let's get straight to the point. my girlfriend's pussy can play the guitar. the only word i know how to write without insecurity is "guitar". tumbling together, i might sound a little less human than expected, might sound a little more alive than you would believe a human being could have the potential to be.
everything is fucking guitars fucking guitars fucking guitars. i fuck my guitars regularly, they're my good girls when i want them to be and they're bad when i want 'em to be. i've got a boner thinking of doing anything that is possible with a girl who has extraordinary tits. i smother my chest with your sins. i have a sin, not gonna lie, i'm part giant monster. the giant monster is right where you want it to be. the giant monster tells me to tell you that he will purify your soul as long as he can fuck you as deeply as he can.
my girlfriend can watch. your girlfriend can watch. we can get them to fuck each other. we can even do a seance with jimi hendrix. we'll get jimi hendrix to fuck us with his tongue.

Monday, January 18, 2016

i'd like to go for a stroll in the big city.

"we're doing messed up things right now," my baby says upon coming out of me. he is an egg. a sexless, boring bland-colored egg. he is a deformed seed. i'm getting off to my baby coming out of my womb because getting off is always in the forefront of my mind. my baby is born with his neck is wrapped by his umbilical cord, covered in disgusting birthmarks. "we're all doing messed up things," he repeats himself for his last words. and the pain in my asshole dies. i watch. i don't have much to say. i get it. death is a part of life. the thing is, we think there's plenty more to come, plenty of shit that hasn't been dreamed up yet. we're only going to breed the same old shit we already know about.

everything we abandon we abandon because reasons take on form we attach to things and other people we know. things with potential to die. all things with potential to die turn out to mean very little to us.

it's not that i wanted to leave. i didn't want to get into trouble -the government wants to send me to the guillotine for the amount of children i've had. and i agree with the government- there are too many of them. not enough jobs. not enough sympathy. not enough of people.
we become able to abandon after we become callused. wearing all black as if that fucking means something, i jump from advertisement to advertisement throwing grenades out over times square with my really cool friends who kill people in the name of a religion they don't fully understand. they don't move. their skin is turning into metal. tin. steel. they are losing their abilities to move around. they have lost their ability to reach biological cessation because they resist and resisting is all they fucking do.
i challenge the people who don't fucking move, who don't fucking do anything except fuck themselves in the mouth of the economy, in the mouth of god, in the mouth that is not their own. i challenge them to take back leadership of their intelligence. i love to "give myself away", as my mother used to say, don't get me wrong, kids. but my brain is my crown and i will die adorned with it intact.
and you'll never guess what happens next. not a single motherfucker in the vicinity makes a sound. aside from the flapping of the wings of several pigeons, it's dead fucking silence in time square. at once, we try to escape ourselves and each other.
i hate it here and i want that fucking pony i asked for, all those years ago. i want it now. don't you feel total remorse now, daddy? you didn't get me a fucking pony? you just fucked me and you fucked yourself and that's all you spent your time doing? i hope nothing but the best for you now. i hope you have interest in different things, except me. i hope i stay in your head forever.

i am just as able to bury my grief as you are. this warm earth is mine. my throne.
and now that i've violently attacked everyone out there, as much as i can, i can't live with myself. i am not able to sleep at night.

it is time to go. but there isn't a place called "nothing" for me to go to. it is time to go somewhere else until i hate myself again.

love is an infection. the reason this is so is because the possibilities of things other than love becomes a very confusing prospect. you catch love like pink eye. you need to keep away from others but you don't. you simply long to mean something to everyone. they leave you, leave where you're at. they don't want to catch an infection, after all.

it's your dick i'm sitting on in the middle of the night with bleach and shit spread on and around us. this rape is painful for the both of us.

it is possible to escape reason. the devil is hanged from a noose where a lamp used to be. he is gagged and bounded and his skin is eaten in little slivers, like deli meats. typical. i'm not impressed by this showmanship. this is what i keep learning.
and of course god lives next door. he is a junkie of some sort. he believes he needs to get high in order to survive. motherfucker keeps thinking he can get away with some shit, keeps thinking he can survive anything.
doesn't think once he's setting an example for all the sorry fucks who believe in him. they've never caught a virus of the earth once. they've never caught a disease or HPV. they don't believe that's what the world is made up of these days- viruses and sorry sorry shits. they're comfort zone types.

so caught up in their own problems, they don't even know one another exists. pleasure is an anomaly that separated from the devil long ago. a genetic mutation. the devil does not even know about his finest creation, and it's kept away from god as long as pleasure has been around. pleasure: a forgotten, abandoned child.

i rape myself with a falsity of happiness. i have been paid to convince myself one can gain happiness, the big fucking deal, through rape. it doesn't exist, happiness, but it's our job to pretend to others it does.
i'm smiling from ear to ear being raped for an enormous advertisement to rape times square with.

my body hurts from the stabbing i inflicted on it. do you hear what i put myself through? i'm falling apart. my body is falling apart. and you know what, so be it. i want everyone to be faced with the personal with no where to run to. like i said, "nothing" doesn't exist for us.
it is required we force ourselves as exhibits unto our fellow brothers and sisters. our needs are underdeveloped. we don't know what story to tell next. we are forced to make shit up.

but my pride is deliberate.
my pride is owed praise. all that matters is that i get it.

my pride is lovely, a flower. it remains open at night. that means it remains wide awake.
my pride is titian's venus- a god in a bed fit only for a god. people line up to experience pleasure with my pride. my pride is the finest pussy ought there. my pride is sought after. i exhale a delicate fragrance to draw in the hedonists, the libertines and everyone else who doesn't and won't ever toast to love.
and then they come to me and toast to fucking love. who would've thought contradiction meant something more than we give it credit for. i am spoiled with my hunger, the dick i don't have inside me; forever seeking my prides ability to rule with free reign.


there aren't any diseases left to catch.

all these new people in the world, these little ones, aren't doing anything but picking away at their skin until all their fluffy stuffing comes out.
they weren't born crying. they didn't have it in themselves to breathe. they were born hunting for pacifiers.

these pacifiers are called luxuries.

these children cost zero dollars. free children. free children. dump them to the other side of the border. fill the little motels with free children. we don't need to wipe our asses with paper when we could just sit on a pile among one another. wipe your ass with your reflection of me. catch everything i've got and let it burn for days with nobody to motherfucking talk about it with you.

neither god nor the devil are very, very mad at you.

disinterest: there is nothing left to be addicted to.

hi, my name is whore. sex investments are what i'm about. i am inspired by the beetles. my favorite songs by the beetles? i don't know the names. i don't know the names of anyone or anything. and let me just recant a bit- i don't fucking listen to the beetles. all their shit sounds the same.
world, i'm whore, and i am taking over this city right now. i am fucking king kong- my dick, my dick, scraping women clean, peeping around town like it's nobodies business. my business is not the business of others.

across the coveted lands the gods, it became the law that the people abandon their babies. i am an ancestor that took on their pain- their worst rapist. pain consumed me, ate me from the intestines first.

there is nothing left to be addicted to so we are to exploit ourselves in order to find new addictions to grow new dreamscapes on. let us find reason to invite ourselves wherever.
i am haunted by sex. in the house of god and the house of the devil alike, everything looks like shit. it secretes out of the spot between my eyebrows. i hurt myself to rid myself of it. i opened myself from my pelvic floor to around my diaphragm. i allowed my guts and my blood from the inside of my body cascade out. with my eyes closed, they are two waterfalls heading away from each other, with pretty flowers, pretty bubbles- the inside of my body. a major part of someones symphony out there.
clearly, i am crying. men cry. i've become a man. mom and dad come out to congratulate me. it feels a little awkward in here. me, naked, my own self inflicted martyr cry and the people there to witness it are my parents. mom is clearly still in love with dad even though it's been most of my life since they've been in the same room last. it's been, at least, my whole memory since they've been in the same room last.
i've graduated. i've graduated from one particular rape to another kind.

i am addicted to a drug. the drug is called rape. I HAVE TO BE RAPED. i have to go to bed being raped. something is always raping something out there so i might as well be raped, might as well work out denting my sensitivity until none of it is left.
according to statistics and from what the little birdies have told me, rape is common. get that through your inflatable head filled with hot air.

rape is fucking common. (my name is rape. nice to meet you, rape.))

pure id is what that is, that rape shit, whatever that's about. impish and living id. my fucking nihilist child. now i am disgusted. i am so disgusted i've become fertile.
my heart grows every time it happens.
i've got accolades everywhere- a new boy scout patch for each time i use the word rape. i went to SUNY i went to CUNY and i'm a rapist with bodies in my van. i am a rapist. i get raped. and i especially rape myself. "no, i don't want to touch myself," i say to my hand stroking my cock. "yes, yes you do." my hand says as my cock oozes on my hand, in front of the television set in my motel room. rage is crying in the fucking corner, because he hates to see me this way. he can only console himself at this rate.
so i make him suck it.

he calls out to me, "rape, i'm tired tonight. i'm not feeling all that well." rage has the emotional maturity of a two year old. a two year old i've raped.

"that's not what i want to hear," rape began, "that's not what i want to hear."

and now we're getting the hang of passing around the fucking communion wafers. everyone is getting the hang of becoming a saint.

rape is putting my cock in fluff and filth and catching STDs from something that isn't a pussy or an asshole. my first rape was caught on camera. it was like a home fucking movie. sent to fucking cbs or nbc or hbo or the computer. don't know which. now, i'm grateful that i had an opportunity to be seen. i looked into the camera lens the whole time, which, for the most part, lay on its side near my body as if someone had died. somebody did die, in fact, because my hot little raped body made them black out and pass on. i was an extension of pleasure, a vulgar object, a device to commit lust into. i wanted help, probably, but i was told i liked it, so maybe i did like it. maybe i wanted to help. help orchestrate. re-arrange my beliefs in what is happening. always conflicted, maybe all of these things are true.
people go and die, just leave me on the side of the fucking road, and even in their death, they rape themselves. pitiful lifeless shell for worms to squat in. haven't even dropped them off at the lake yet and they're practically begging for it.

i'm gonna drop these bodies. and what's going to happen is i'm not going to feel like shit for once. i'm going to let my insecurities over my problems grow like basement mold. let me take my shit out on whomever i want to.
let me tell you something that i bet you didn't know. i have a purple fucking heart. see? see? i was the rapist who was raped first.
at a very young age, you see, i knew what penises looked like. i knew what vaginas looked like. i know exactly what they want me to look at. they want me to look at the gut behind their eyes. you want me to touch whatever it is that can be touched.

was i raped or not? i've played this game several times, all night with myself. i don't know. there isn't much that seems to be my business. but you know exactly what you're fucking looking at. i cannot be pierced. i am pure marble.
my heart grows, at the risk of a heart attack- all the rape is clogging my arteries. you know what you've come looking for, my voice croaks. my pussy is right here. it's as big as a dick. i can rub it against anything i want to. i can rub against you.
now put your fucking hands up. nobody is to regain composure. shut up and fall the fuck apart.

the shitfaced perverts do as they're told.

my technology is chipping away at my sense of individuality as well as commonality. my sense of disharmony has been dead, and recently re-awakened. this has happened before, but it mostly just winds up dead. i can't hear because my ears shut down from all i rape them with. i rape myself all day long. i rape myself with technology. i don't even know what rape really is anymore. like people, like the stars, this is all impermeable.
i am every injury, every broken heart, broken ego, wet brain, broken glass bottle broken dream as well as every fucking break from reality. rape is my name as well as the name of my game and now you too can feel just as cool. next door neighbors rape each other all the time.
steal everything you find from my safe and plagiarize it in spray paint. live in a world where taking things without having to chip away at my dignity is allowed. one day, i'm going to write, and write, and write, and they're gonna be books. do not remove my injuries. do not remove the way i see things and the things i say about them. steal every last one of those books. the only other way we give is with rape.

your next challenge is to burn your copy of my book. (stay tuned 'kuz we have rape coming up next and our sponsors are loving and generous just so very kind.)
message to rape on television: anything i haven't learned from experience i'm certainly not going to learn from the fucking television. television, you are too dumb to do anything about rape. i am not weak enough to hand over my intelligence to fucking machines that aren't programmed to handle the human mind.
but the people in charge of it follow the rape-suit and RAPE US.

unchain yourself from the enormous chart of human statistics.

then burn it.
so my name is rape, right? okay.
i have burned my name. helen of troy reminds me so much of what happens to us. we lose an ability to give a fuck about anything as long as we get what we want. rape and wanting turn into the same thing. so i burned my name helen of troy. i felt guilty about my wanting, my pleasure. my next name was rape. it was the name of my game. i have burned the name of my game. no longer do i have game. i wander searching for happiness, beaming at the sight of artificial light. happiness has to be a real drug, i know, it has to be, i know. the light of the sun doesn't impress me. i was raped into feeling that way.
i'm going to lie down in the middle of the night and wait for the vultures to circle above me- what i'll do is call it the sundance. look at me, so courageous, unafraid of death. ready. birds forming a circle, guiding me to the stars.
i had starved to death because i refused to eat bullshit, and the only thing available to eat was bullshit. what was i going to do? i began to stink of malnourishment, so a truck picked me up and dropped me at the side of the road alongside a desert.

i refused to look past my hunger, my hunger for bullshit. my hunger for turning the other cheek. my desert to not hurt anyone except myself. all i had to do was get myself to be raped.
i died because i couldn't make myself get raped.

Friday, January 15, 2016

we are all fucking whores.

i idolize aileen wuornos- fuck me man, wish i had the guts to be a prostitute. yeah, man- totally feel you. wish i had the guts to be the badass motherfucker i make myself out to be. these are the words of the new barbie. the bitch that smells, the homeless bitch out on the streets- with a shit stain right where the pussy is supposed to lay- diarrhea. she probably doesn't have a pussy. her parents probably had her sewn up.
this is the girl who's the girlfriend of some guy.
this is the child born and raised in alaska, where all that anyone has in common is drinking. everyone is down and out and fucking blue collar. and so am i. i'm lower middle class, because no, it's not all either one extreme or the other, i believe the meaning given to money is deteriorating as if it hasn't been clear this whole time. you feel that? you feel that under your feet? it's the fury of antigone. we all must search within ourselves. we must back away and be spared of stupidity. a general construct, perhaps; but perhaps asking to not be abused nine hundred times a day by causes celebrating a desperate economy isn't too much to ask for. perhaps it'd just pass congress, easy peas-y, if fucking considered a worthy cause to do something about, you know, the cause that is stabilizing the entire country, each human being disillusioned beyond holy hell.

buy your new barbie doll now, congress and company.  her name is jaded and she has lots of secrets. she grew up with a sense of hopelessness, thus she loss her innocence, or forgot what innocence is. never really thought about it. i set my treaty. i have seen who i am and i ask i continue to explore it without your controlling eye.

thank you.
lassy mcdaniel, ohio elementary. age eleven,

Thursday, January 14, 2016


i am in a desert. i can't drag even my tits up. the middle east does not offer me grace. i swallow sand upon every movement. i shit sand. i can't bear dragging myself against the weight of the elements. perhaps we are all particles, i thought one day, thinking something nice out of desperation. of the universe. perhaps i am turning the color gold, the gold of the sand, each grain unique, the sunset breathing itself on it.

a sandstorm sweeps me. i am thirsty. i want to know about something, to believe in god, or whatever it is i idealize in the moment. it's nothing about getting my tits sucked on, nothing about my pussy dripping nectar. it's an opposing sexuality. it's the things that say no.
i plant them under my wings where, when ready to fly, the are never to return home.

they'll never make it anywhere else, either. without their pride which i burned alive, they'll never make it.

but i believe in being a particle. meat sitting with a few slabs of meat. girl sitting on her bed, staring downward. she has gone where the rules tell her not to go. she is in big trouble. she retreats to the rules because she gets shamed when she doesn't follow the rules. the rules don't welcome her in. she sheepishly following them around, slouching over. she doesn't appear to have it in her to follow the rules. there is no-where, so it seems for her, to go.

she goes to prison where she masturbates every night.

everyone there is in there for some big-shot reason or another- they all think they're elvis, but they're not. elvis is being held captive with duct tape across his mouth, around his wrists and around his ankles. she becomes desensitized to does not believe in reasons. she's been invaded so often, why can't he do the same to her? she tells elvis that if he were to just lose touch with reality, fucking would be everything signifying importance. moving around under elvis, she's fully in touch with the fluidity of being a human being. that this is all that is the business of human beings.
she's called a whore and a sex addict because people are dicks.

love is a bunch of bullshit. if you can't happen to see, my guts are everywhere. that has something to do with someones shit.
love is fucking ugly and disgusting. love is the cokehead on the road. it certainly doesn't get me off. and, noting its relentlessness, it can't stop getting itself off.
it stops you from doing many important things. like taking care of your own unique emotional needs and maintaining healthy judgment. all you begin to fucking care about anymore, after a certain point, is the image representing your love, love so overwhelming it takes on mass. and honestly, they're probably fucking ugly, whoever your love might be. being an asshole does that to a person- makes them turn ugly.
because- the best part of this story- love makes people turn into assholes. they don't know any better than to hold onto the reflections of others. the evolutionary rate of the human is slow. they haven't taught themselves how to altogether let go yet.
in the meantime, i say everyone get a divorce and burn money or go to hell. and steal every fucking book that's trying to sell itself to you.

i lean on my back, being sacrificed. this is ancient greece, so i'm to be raped. i'm fucking cold because i'm naked, waiting. and i happen to want to fuck. so i allow myself to let go and think of fucking. fucking and crying and shitting.
my eyes are closed. in their stripper heels my feet move upward against a muscular, soft body. a giant rattle snake leans over me, huge, bigger than me; he flickers his tongue toward me. i'm going to allow this beast to fuck me and set me free of bullshit. i look into his eyes to read his soul- we all need to piss on our territory some way or another.

and then he is fully there. 

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

the uninteresting series: my baby brain.

okay, get it straight. this story is about the primitive stuff you, too, have inside of yourselves, past the synapses, past their functions. past everything you already know. so get ready. this will be an unbutchering owed to nature. a sacrifice to the breath-giver.
all the trees are alive. everyone knows trees cannot be corrupted. this story takes place around the trees from new york, the kingdom of sleep. the basement of the house of denial.

this is where people go to keep themselves from themselves in order to transform into walking advertisements. andy warhol prophesied this. the art is undeniable. where people can afford to emulate, they will. though, if one cannot, on the hot pavement they die trying.
countless bodies are buried in central park. i'm not sure if this is hell or heaven, with all this festering, and my not festering. there's this giant scale out there people believe in, heaven on one side, and hell on the opposite. however, like how i understand other things, new york, perhaps, is both hell and heaven at the same time. yes. this is the garden of good and evil, the two rarest species in the universe. neither good nor evil can exist anywhere else but here. good and evil working together is what pleasure is.
this is where things prefer to move by colliding into each other. here, people die even before the revolution will get a chance to take place. they are dead because their fears of freedom killed them at young ages. a snake bites everyone at some point. thus tragedy is born. somewhere, in one of the trees, the cheshire cat's isolated mouth grins widely. i hang upside down, by my ankles, from a ceiling.

trees are in your belly, in the bellies of us all; their roots connect to each other, branches tickle each other. leaves shed and pile, making love to one another. never out of place, trees have survived the splitting of the atom, the holocaust, the loss of their sight, hearing, and voices; they've survived the abuse of sharp edges etching into them the reminders of the human strife to immortalize ephemera, to protect beliefs of love from degeneration. and now they survive fucking emphysema. and last but not least, trees have survived my burning where they come from to the ground. anything can exist as long as trees exist.
but all that's left is a box i shit in sometimes. when i'm not hanging upside-down from the wall.

degeneration is the law.
there is a garden that still exists- a chunk of the earth floating in the sky. it was originally lodged in a hole but god told lucifer to shovel it out. it took hundreds upon thousands of years. god needed to talk and this particular chunk of land was shoved in his mouth. god doesn't speak often, but when he does, it's the only part of him anyone ever gets to know, because we are sacrificed into it. long live.
it was important the land get shoved out so we could hear whatever it was god wanted to say. i certainly don't remember.

in this land there are two different kinds of peacocks, the man and the woman. here, butchers get to show off how attractive they are to passing women with the size of their bloodied butcher knives. women get to reproduce all they want by jiggling around a stripper pole. i did similar shit as a young child. most importantly, everyone fucks on swings.
i was born here in new york. draped in a towel, i awoke in a bathtub after my parents raped each other with marriage.

what had happened was my parents had spread the legs of one another with matching buzzers readied, thus engaging in planning their entire lives ahead of them. lust. god, down below, choked. they wound up carving into the genitals of one another, eating them a little, mostly just nibbling at the skin, but they couldn't take much of it. they could barely even get themselves to puke even though purging clear is the answer. this all was a matter of politics and religion fucking up at each other, confusing mom and dad. sadistic pleasure.
i licked dust and dead moths for my diet, growth, and way of life. mom was on her way out, it seemed for sure. she mostly just snored when she didn't yammer on about her destroyed pussy and body fat. dad was busy at work in the world i did not care to get to know, nor did mom. while my mother wasted away after birthing me, she ordered me to reach for an apple from the branch of the tree of life, who provided us with shade, and watched over us- i'm sure an informant for god.

this apple was the beginning of my vision quest, as i see it.

this apple was golden, shimmering. however, mom only noticed it had a worm in it so it remained on the floor of the bathtub, uneaten. the beautiful apple rotted away through the indoctrination of time, through all television programs, through college, and through following guidelines, and through not getting laid, and finally divorce which was even more like outright cannibalism than planning the future was.

then death came, which was like an even worse divorce, for both my mother and father. dad was swallowed alive by his neglected emotions. mom accidentally swallowed herself while snoring. expenses, or respect, were paid.

this amount of money i had to pay back is what hurt me instead of anything else.

i become friends with the dead burnt inflexible worm from my fairy-tale apple. he never got to know reality the same way i do- since i was alone, i thought he'd be my teacher. we're supposed to have teachers.

this worm was to be the only teacher i'd ever have.

one day he told me to back off. "piss off," were his exact words.
he told me to feed his body to the birds outside. "kill my deadness," i remember that, too. he told me that if i know anything about africa than i'd know children starve and that is horrible. he told me, in respect to this, birds starve, he was so sure, and that they were probably waiting for him at the dirty bathroom window, slobbering. panting. necrophiliacs. god fainted and it turned into an earthquake.

suddenly, i refused to believe in death. i believe what's really happening is the losing of the body. and honestly, i don't see anything wrong with getting some true rest; with being set free. with cutting the crap.

without any teachers other than myself, without any people, really, everything i did was something i meant to do. intent became an important part of life. i secretly asked the ghosts to guide my way. i didn't want to have anything to do with anything else.
for a while, i closed the door to my world any time i was to engage in an hedonism. society, spanking itself next door, was ashamed of me. i liked that i could feel the weight of society crushing my body underneath it.
though it was intentional, i couldn't help masturbating. i wasn't any good at it, but i was frustrated, so frustrated, all the darkness runs away from me. i focused too much on scanning my passing images in order to make sure i was absorbing information. i fucked myself more than the entire world population could; more than even the dick of king kong could fuck me or anyone.
by the way, i hadn't really left the bathtub so much yet. i had been conditioned into believing this was the world. nothing was going to take away my conditioning, destined to clash with my values.

i charmed the hell out of every motherfucker that happened to pass me by. they only cared about themselves and what their wives were serving them for dinner. (other people.) when they saw my unkempt foot daintily hanging over the rim of the bathtub, they come here. it's me they ask what i charge for my services. i charge, because i look up to myself.
i don't felt upset about this, i can sleep at night because guys don't die from me, and i exonerate both my sex dreams and my masturbating though they both often disturb me. i am unable to exonerate myself otherwise. i do not impress my herculian expectations of myself. i've been unable to distance my sense of self from myself as an animal.

i birthed a babe of my own for company, because babies don't have to last forever. hi, i'm the mother of new york city. we share the same father.

without admitting the truth about some things, i imprison myself, ill-advised. however, each time i do admit myself, a liberating act or not, it seems to myself i lose touch with my sanity. it seems sanity is irrelevant.

truth number one: nothing interests me except the thought of my dad.

without admitting the truth that my dad fucked me in my bathtub where i've lived my whole life, starving for experience, i would've never left it. i don't know where i am now, but it's a city street corner, and i'm bleeding. somewhere. i take my hands and smear my blood on surfaces around me- that what i do all day. it's getting people to look at art. give it vulgarity. remind people your pussy is tasty. give definition to art. make it something more than it actually is.

every time right before i orgasm, i feel a major piece of myself coming out slowly and painfully like a cavity that has to go. the pieces are chunks of the bathtub i broke. huge and porcelain, pressing their ways away from me. i have to think of myself getting beaten sexually in order to get there.
i do know it's important to admit that my father was being mean to me; emotionally ignorant. he had told me that virgins cure the disease of impurity, as if that's what he was interested in. he told me next that all virgins are for is impurity. pleasure, in our pleasureless gallery of dead roots and dead ideas, and their reflections of each other, is important beyond anything.

i needed the fucking experience dad gave me. he set me straight with my "i need some kind of life experience" shit.

hi; i am a mother to the depraved city. i knew it wouldn't have a chance in hell escaping being depraved.
hi; i am a mother also to that which crawls on the sidewalks spreading their legs for people on the hunt for life experience. the men and the women bow to the pride of one another. this is an undoubtedly sick act. hurt me, jesus; i deny your teachings from my own insides. hurt me, father. hurt me in my sleep in the middle of the night so the origin of my sickness could never be uncovered. so it could be i've only been dreaming this whole time.

Monday, January 11, 2016

he's not coming back.

once upon an ostracized schoolboy, david bowie died. everyone who had loved him would be fated to continue to love him, because love doesn't die. relationships die.
not long ago the two of us were in a dreary place, appeasing our mothers- coaxed into paying respects to the NAMI speakers that were in town. i was madly in love with david, who, of course, has the same name as my father. of fucking course.
we went downhill into the dreary place together. we made a decision together. i was floating with excitement. i remember thinking, "nothing will stop me from being open."
it'd been a while since the two NAMI speakers had anything to do- had anything to do with fresh air, particularly, but neither had i. it stunk of cat-lady and cheap perfume. stunk of shit. but, of course, it didn't really matter since the only thing that does matter is accompanying my thoughts with constant thoughts of boys. it's completely upsetting to me, that i don't know how to be alone, that i can't engage in any of my passions because they require some sort of singular perspective. but as long as i'm not alone, i am alive.

one of the speakers was named sex life because, i decided, she didn't have one. the other was named life story because hers bored me. both of them bored me. "they're not winning me over," i thought, though i did not expect them to.
so it turns out:
sex life and life story survive by suckling the teat of the stigma of mental illness under the impression that they are doing the opposite, lending a helping hand to those in need; those just like them. because they've done what they've done for getting mental health to pass legislation they've taken over the world with as many teats as possible. but mental illness, in our culture, remains being referred to as "mental illness". this is a beast that lies down on her side, luring bait in with scent. i want the world to know i'm a fucking shaman but that's a no-no where i'm from.

a beast with god knows how many teats is suffocating me. this is supposed to be my hero.

my mind has not changed concerning mental illness. when i put on make-up i like to pretend i'm scratching my eyes out and my lips off. the fat of a beast suffocating me is the food i get. i say drop a bomb on it all. i want to survive without it in my neighborhood, in my culture, considering how the fear that is brought out of us all concerning mental illness is enabled even through its "positive" stereotypes. go ahead. bomb the motherfucker even if it means i starve. even if i have to eat the asses of other human beings.

serious matters. fear. people eating each other alive. it already happens.

"i told that motherfucker to lose itself in the gay-orgy woods a long time ago," david bowie said, concerning his axis i diagnosis of manic-depression, keeping the parts of his wild life story a secret. he was silent. he looked inwardly.

ME. hi; my religion is mental illness. it drives me sick with shame that i haven't yet dropped it- religion is constricting, even the religions we make up on our own, for ourselves; forcefields of justifying.
contradiction is a necessity for transition. growth. change.

ME. hi; i refuse to give into the traditions of my religions unless i'm ambivalent about them. i have nine hundred religions, like lovers- i am so unfaithful that i'm filth, i'm hardly even faithful to myself. chop up the credit cards and feed them to the selfish part people believe are part of every marsh.

A POEM ABOUT BELIEVING IN MYSELF. to a marsh, offerings are made. things grow and hide from the bottoms of marshes- although it's really something else, it doesn't matter that they are gorgeous flowers.
this marsh is the foundation of life. it doesn't fucking matter.
the cattails above move a bit because, well, the wind moves them around. don't wonder about the fucking wind. everyone knows about it, and that's that. get it straight that there is nothing fucking exciting about the wind.

a princess, this one time, was so lovely, in ancient times- lovely accordingly, side-by-side next to ancient standards. she was a complete do-gooder- however, the only thing she could get off to were thoughts of being a bad girl. so maybe she was really just a bad girl. hi; this princess is a past life of mine, one i often re-visit. she, too, carried someone around in her thoughts, probably for security, much like how i had david bowie in my head; a teddy bear named george in my bed. no matter what, she was surrounded by cops. the planet was flooded with them, as far as she was concerned. perhaps they, too, gave her security. pretty much everyone else in the planet lived to serve her and her every need and want, so it's possible.
with her glory- because she did not understand what was so great about glory- in an attempt to make a statement, she dunked herself into the muddy shit-hole that was the marsh. it was her backyard. she held her breath. the vegetation surrounding her decomposed as her body neared death. she and the cops and the flowers were all hiding under the water for too long and there were far too many of them. things were getting out of hand.

none of this was really how it appeared, meaning, it might've just as well have not happened, and there isn't really anything to talk about other than how we wouldn't recognize the foundation of life if it hit us across our faces, so let's move toward the expression of sin.
the princess, in the murky water, ran away from the decay, with her wedjats and her ankhs and her exotic ancient stuff mixed with mythology. she ran straight into an age of plastic; passed out.
with no-where to go, she pawned her shit in for blatant sexuality. unknowing that she already had it this whole time, a snake gave her cheap shit that he convinced her was what she asked for. but it was an apple, of course. the snake offered an apple to anyone who would listen.

the princess ate the apple because she was hungry. it messed her up, but she was glad she did it. it took care of her curiosity.
i daydream over boys. i take care of my curiosity.

a worm came from the apple and told the princess that he wasn't to take care of her. neither were the constructs of good or evil. this dream was getting out of hand. the princess inevitably woke up. as usual.

she knew things were going to be different than how she determined them to be- things were to be indeterminate, in fact. but that's okay, because her mind was a beautiful, shining apple itself, and her fairy tale was not going suffer from a programming of morality. it is to be a social commentary, if anything. (she had a wild mind). and in her wild mind, she wished she was as wild as her mind herself.
she wondered about the gravity of black holes and what it is they want. she was certain they wanted apples. she was certain they were just curious to know what we were doing. she was certain that if she were to give the black holes apples, they would be greatly disappointed by sin. she fed them apples. she fed them so many apples from so many apple trees she had grown, that the black holes exploded everything she did not know she was facing, bathed in mucus, acidic puke, things eaten long ago, things thought long dead. she was hit in the face in the explosion and went blind.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

i'm a little disappointed in the lack of support given to the VANDALIZE SOCIAL MEDIA NOW project. you've got nothing to be ashamed of, baby. it isn't our fault we were born slaves meant to grow up kissing the feet of royalty.
i highly believe you want to get ready for the reality of the world just like me. for a reformation. i want to do whatever i do without shame.  i don't want to contribute to a cultural, social, or economical power struggle.
let's admit we feed into the sicknesses of those worse off. the money hungry. those overwhelmed with greed. let's admit glorifying these bastard children doesn't make their conditions any easier, for any of us.
let us VANDALIZE SOCIAL MEDIA with our manifestos; our responses to our indoctrinations. let us liberate ourselves.

hunting and gathering.

take as i cut off

i will act to your satisfaction

take it

Thursday, January 7, 2016

vandalize your social media now.

fellow comrades, please hear me out. i'm in a bit of a fucking pickle; feeling as if i'm being given an ultimatum: either experience another loss of ability to handle my depression, or accept one of the options i'm being handed as my future. we will delve into that shortly.
so i didn't have a sense of the future until recently, and even so, i question it, so i get that i'm not an expert. but this just seems so messed up- that is, what's expected of us bright, young americans these days. we have to sell our souls, because that's the standardized way? well, i'm not blind to standards, and they gross me the fuck out. and i'm not into this getting a job idea either, spending my time trying to convince myself i like my job, or going to a place pretending to have a job- clearly, in jail either way. half dead. killin' the time. what the fuck? what does this say about how society is degenerating, yet we're still pressured to give to it?

opening my mind to the cultural appropriation of yoga studios to have a reliable social outlet is disgusting me enough.

however, i do note i also have an option to rebel, moving myself further than the expectations others might have of me. at this point, it's either do or die. i need your help on this one. first, agree that it's about damn time we do something to decompose this treatment we receive. cool. you're in. next, hear me out.

according to my cover letter right now, "Aside from my dog-sitting business [lolol], I haven't worked in almost four years because I have a disability which is now in remission. I am decidedly ready to head back out into the working field."

what it looks like i've been asked to "open my mind" to is wasting my time. stagnating away in corrupt shit-holes where the mentally ill are treated like how the retarded are often treated. that goes against the grain of what i want from life, and i'd rather burn such shit-holes to the ground than waste away in them.
though i'm being advised to not get a job, it's like, well, i admit i need money in order to save up money and start travelling again, meeting up with different artists around the country. which is my plan. this was dismissed by my social worker. but. i just looked up job opportunities on the net. it was disgusting. i just can't oblige these standards. if structure for an unstructured mind- as if the collective unconscious doesn't exist!- turns out to be as important as it's rumored to be, nevertheless, i don't want to be miserable for it. i want to reserve the slave and master thing strictly for myself. i hardly believe it's important to sacrifice my sense of purpose for the sake of feeding the gaping mouth of the economy or god.
i'm not enough of a bratz doll to join the ranks of strippers, and i don't dance like a turd floating in toilet water.
another option: something i'm already acquainted with called ACESS-VR. another ghetto shit-hole, one that would teach me how to act fake in order to get a job. when i could just. act fake and get a job.

well these are the options presented to me for structure, and also, for purpose. problem. i already have purpose. just because you guys would rather read facebook updates and numb out from that over stimulation that abuses us and demands our attention, it doesn't mean you're not capable of looking around and considering how amazing this world is, how cool life is. it doesn't mean art doesn't exist. it's very much alive.

art is in you. art is you.

i am interested in collaborating with an artist or artists that share similar values or views with me. i paint, i write, and i'm willing to do anything for the sake of art.

and i'm not talking about your indoctrinated academia shit, your doing what's considered correct according to what you were taught. do it yourself. be your own teacher.

and be mine too. i will be yours in return. i learn quick.

now spread this to your social media, please, put it out there. i need as many of you to wake up. not just for my sake- i don't want to wind up half-dead anymore- but check the rest of us out. everyone in this country is half dead with our first world problems. first world problems that will eventually turn third world.

we are necessary. let's put a stop to the bullshit. come gather, artists everywhere, and teach each other. teach each other everything that isn't bullshit.

-author unwilling to provide or feed into the scam of identity. i encourage you to steal authorship.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

your bug fat cock.

"selling my used panties - w4m

im a thin and young female with a great smelling pussy. I am looking to sell some of my favorite used panties for $40 each. you can buy as many as you want and i don't send any pics of my face, however with each purchase i will send you a picture of my ass in the underwear and also a video of me masterbating to a picture of your bug fat cock, or just masterbating thinking of you. We can have phone sex for 10 minutes then ill masterbate while on the phone witch you and send you a video. after that you give me an address and leave the $40 in the mailbox and ill drop my panties in the mailbox! must get paid first before phone sex.
  • do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers"

Sunday, January 3, 2016

in defense of industriousness.

who is industrious? hi; as long as i work i'll be all right- because all we've got going for us is work, and bums, but i don't want to be no bum. i was born working hard- to the extent, in fact, that as soon as i was born, i wanted to grow up to lead a transgressive life somehow; a transgressive world of my own construction. nihilists don't mind believing in life. it's reality that they aren't baptized to. i know it's supposed to be a condition and i know that's supposed to be really sad, but i really want to be a nihilist. i want to lose my sense of inhibition, is the thing. i'm not into the same shit other people are. i want change. there's more that can be done with this.
(i have my hard work to defend). i have my defenses to exhaust.

because i was very unhappy with doing stuff i didn't want to do, i crept away into a comatose state. i was the prettiest comatose body around, wearing a crown...a pink dress, too. little cannibals from far away islands cried over my body, which, over time, had busted out of my pink dress. i was beautiful- too beautiful to eat alive, and too beautiful to destroy.
i didn't leave the hospital closest to my families house, in which this happened, with the cannibals and the comatose state and the dress, until two decades later.
by then, i was a beautiful young lady.
because i wasn't into it- if being a beautiful young lady states something, i don't know what- i shaved my head. i shaved my eyebrows. i did not shave my body hair elsewhere.

i was unwilling to learn to live with that unconscious leaning of mine for the rest of my life. it seemed as if it was asking too much. i grew to believe that the only way to live without it was to break everything; to break out of the acknowledged. to go further. however, i still didn't know how to live without my... my depression.
i felt like a collapsed star in the universe although i saw that in everything else just as well; i saw blankness; dead fucking gravity. all i knew was i was disappointed in myself for not matching up with my ideals. (it wouldn't be a big deal if i wasn't so fucking slowed by time and petrifying away.)

today, i've been on all the talk shows. i'm past all the raggedy old robes i used to be into. if i can beat depression, just cut the shit, anyone can; or- i can do anything. so i do.
but without depression being completely there i feel a little lost; a little like i don't know how to tie my shoes. a little too late.

so i feel like walking a little. before, i walked on the other side of the main road, where the trees are. i breathed easily. i felt that i...i could cry. i'd felt the sensation rise behind my eyes then jerk away.

a little uncomfortable walking alongside the woods, because of what i believe, i.e., the woods are going to rape me, and i'm going to be unhappy with how i handle myself, i walked alongside the road to paradise.
it's nearby. it's where you're lead to believe beautiful things, depending on how you constitute beauty, in order to wake up behind a dumpster missing a few organs without recollection of the night before.

listen up: i don't like sharing my shit. it won't be believed in the same way i believe in it. i especially don't want to share a deity. i need to be my own deity, perhaps. maybe even recruit followers. drag them along the road to paradise.

perhaps a dream, can't tell:

i am the leader of a revolution, a revolution unlike any other- a revolution that prevents a reformation afterward. it is direct, loud and clear- and i hardly had to push myself and my agenda at all.
the people i lead are slaves. where is the legacy i'm to live off of without them?

i've become a bit of a statue, immortalized as far as mankind is concerned. only twenty something and as old as siddhartha gautama and other family men. my statue-self is protected from all of the elements. it will never break.

the first thing i did to prepare for pushing my way was rearrange my priorities. i looked up to myself. i looked myself up. i myself looked up.

this was the start of an orgasm. (quiet, please.) i stretched my arms across the clouds. it is said they point in opposing directions.

if there is a new plague it's all in my head as in apocryphal. it's time to address hope.

i yearn. you know how i'd like for my body to touch your body. you know how i'd like to engulf you, powerful man. ability to think. ability to move around. here i am, naked before you, and all you do is say that "we need time before going there". i bow before you and inside i know you think i'm ugly. otherwise, you'd fuck me.

i don't admit on the loudspeakers (the phones, the things in the phones) that i have sex to sell. but underneath the cities, i sell it. i use it to collect experiences.

the whole country is abusing the shit out of me just as well as you. you're not alone in this as much as you wish you were in order to feel special about yourself. the whole country tells us crying is cowardly when, in fact, that is blatant pseudoscience. crying is a release of toxins. it is courageous. people who never cry hate themselves because they're filled with noxious chemicals. they're afraid to be brave. they're afraid to transgress.

the past few weeks i have been trying to masturbate myself to sleep. (make me love the working class.) some kind of willful attempt at happiness, at having sex with myself like how it goes in porn. determine this country i've sailed to, i've seen, i've yet to fathom in an intimate way. one that pushes itself to me, that i push myself right back to. friction is incredible, delicate and firm. difficult to keep up with; to go anywhere with.

in my fantasy tonight, the people are no longer picking cotton. not here. is that what they believe is the emblem for slavery? i don't think it's ephemeral.
because look around ourselves- i ask you to open your mind to this. i don't know who we're serving other than this vague construct of "rich people", and i don't know how to get away from doing so...i'd probably still feel constricted and confined anyway. in the meantime, we're all slaves, or, we're all ashamed of ourselves. we're dead; forced to our graves in life.

fantasy that leads to a nice dream:
if there is someone who hasn't yet died- you know, from the plague- he is dignified and standing upright. he refuses to eat the sharp and bitter stuff everyone else is force-fed. he pockets it. he does not react to his disgust.

initial discussion leads immediately to marriage/kids/divorce:
his deep dark secret is not that his mother touched him as a child- he is quite open about that. what it is is that he want his mommy now. here comes mommy- look, look! there she goes. went.
"come into my similarly mommy-wanting arms. please, fool yourself into believing you're complete because i have traits that you want to see in yourself. they think because we all project ourselves onto everything we see, that that makes it okay for them to go after my characteristics for themselves. greedy motherfuckers. my spine is nice, you say- it's sleek. when spring comes, you can count on me- my brain is the home to flowers.

i think i need to learn how to meet guys differently.

you are forever with sin if you are without constant meditation.

at least pretend to try, goddammit.

stuff i believe in right now:
i believe in the importance of saying what i want. i believe in the danger of everything, not excluding repercussions. i also believe we are currently surviving a cultural depression. eventually it'll turn into some other kind of cultural depression. this is a very sad part of the world we take place in.
i feel embarrassed representing it- the cultural depression, as well as this part of the world. sometimes i scream out of frustration from the advertisements i'm subjected to. however, i find there's something depressing about culture to begin with. something very depressing, old, archaic methods and schools of thought ruling over all, depriving us. being in the way of our truth.
we lose attraction to our own thought. we become repulsed by it.
we are resentful about our ties to being animals. only sex and shitting are permitted, it was said to me. i said that all passive aggressive behavior is our nervousness over being animals. and everyone has a passive aggressive moment now and then, refusing to connect with others over them.

the school of reasoning was invented during a shitty time. we don't need reasons for anything we do.

i am going to shut down this industrialized, oil-seeking agenda of the vague construct of the government- my feet are stuck to the floor in oil, and it's a hot day. what's going to happen is i'm going to be the unlikely hero from a book. this seems to be the only way people can find a way out- and to find a way out, you have to save the rest of us, so it seems.
it's nice of my mind to romanticize bullshit, but i need to move past this. because it's not leading me to make any moves, and i feel totally guilty and embarrassed by having something to do with heroism anyway. any association with an "-ism", to me, is very embarrassing.

eternally hunting we seek mirages. our relationships with the spiritual are always troubled. against my memories will, a mountain spoke. it asked me to help it grow- to feed it with water, soil, and some sunlight. it didn't ask for anything unreasonable as unreasonable as it seems. now, it continues to exist- but it's in better shape now. it's not a gore movie playing in the back of my head, poking me throughout the day. i remember a little:

hi; when i was born, i played with a menagerie of funny animals. i was the human that learned from them. i told them nothing was going to ever happen between us- nothing destructive. of course, they feel betrayed now. i don't know where any of them went, but they left the scene a long time ago. they had mistook me for a saint. i had told them a saint i am.
but i stopped caring.
i had rid my body, at the end of the day, of what i knew it did not need. it did not need anyone- just its own particular functioning.
it didn't take long before i decided what i wanted it to do, why it was going to function. i wasn't going to lay in bed with depression until i was to die. i was going to do what i wanted and learn from it, because everything is a teacher. and i'm tired of hearing the things we want to do cannot teach us, or that they are no good.

in this country, i've lost many people (they died)- they lost themselves, they wanted privacy, but it didn't exist anymore or it wasn't allowed anymore. they didn't find anything you have to spend money on worthwhile, so they stopped spending money and therefore died that way, as well. blood collapsed, descended, spread. poppies grew from the puddles that seeped into the earth. the earth was no longer frozen; it was ready to turn red.
the only person i know to have lived is on the run. most people don't even know she exists. she is the fugitive, the sole fugitive -the one without a ball and chain. she walks toward the east, toward the sunrise. i watch her cross the street, dignified and willowy, to the woods she must enter and eventually leave in order to continue heading eastward. to continue departing.
the name of the woods were "rapey woods". my eyebrows furrowed with concern.

don't stop trudging, the trees rustled to her. you're making me come.
i knew- perhaps, it was a hope at most- that she was to survive, unscathed. but i knew she'd do it better than me. and i knew that a part of her would tell me, perhaps because i seem ascetic next to her, not broken of innocence, ready for a wedding gown, "you wouldn't last a week."

now i eat nothing but crack. i mean, except when i'm out of it...then is when i eat glue. it pours onto my tongue. precious resources have fought their way into my body. because i'm my own slave and master relationship, there's no escaping this wall i'm chained to unless the wall happens to collapse- under which i would break its fall.

even though i love driving, oil disgusts me. but, like i said, precious resources have fought their way into my body; my heart. they've sold themselves with money. (what is it good for?) more glue and more crack.