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.