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 purpose...it 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.
"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.

THE VIRGIN MARY, THE MADONNA, IS THE SYMBOL FOR THE CATHOLIC CHURCH'S DENIAL OF ITSELF. MARY WAS POOR AND NOT A VIRGIN.
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.

THE ROOTS OF CATHOLICISM ARE IN INFIDELITY AND YOU FUCKS KNOW THAT.
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.