Saturday, April 30, 2016


"you do not go to a hospital to inspire the recreation of your own
death onstage. you know it by heart.
this need, this voracity for the extremes of consciousness i return to.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

introducing intellectuality as delicate identity.

engaging in anarchy is difficult when you accept pharmaceuticals as a part of your life (if i didn't, which has happened, i'm sure i'd be in an even more believably dangerous place), you spend every moment of your life just making sure you're surviving until the next moment and that's exhausting enough, you're unable to experience joy, let alone pleasure; you feel inferior to everything (including the concept of anarchy and ideology of anarchism), you feel overwhelmed and like you want to hurt yourself as a result of generating information, you're so confused that you don't even know why you're putting up with this life shit, you romanticize anything that comes your way should it come the wrong time (no, you don't believe in wrong or time but you know what i mean)- and no matter how relevant to reality it is, it seems like a wonderful fairy tale at most; you need your health insurance for your multiple medical conditions that weren't caused by the government, the law, culture or the economy, your FATHER had all these anarchist bragging rights and you don't want to be like THAT guy (which you halfway are), you don't have any other place to go but those you're assigned, you dissociate more than anything else, you're so phobic of invalidation that it has you on a leash, you're actively suffering your eating disorders, you don't have any cool anarchist friends to shoot the impressive anarchist vernacular with, you want it all to yourself, you suffer an ostensibly difficult time reading, and otherwise, you don't believe in this hope bullshit- and this is the best "you" [i] have ever done. i've worked my way up.
if i'm going to host my own cut-up, punk rock culture, or be an elitist with a select few in such, it's going to be understood i'm not to follow a protocol.

i'd prefer to house myself inside myself, accepting such as a shrine of anarchy worth being mindful over. it is everywhere. it is in the sky. it is in the sea. it is in every molecule and every source of reality.

it's likely this is all splitting. now do you know what splitting is- do you ever have to learn? it's likely you fucking don't.


dark mirror,
bodies against bodies
this is the moan you make when you don't want to get out of bed

the same moan as when
i'm going to kill somebody with this rifle
you who think you are to find a way out
by way of continuous burial- your bones are

the moaning in the sand (FEAST)
the reason the weather has become so erratic

you who run into your death to be saved
i see your perpetuated expectations melting
over you and you say, "oh no, dread

oh no, i already know this oh no, fuck
me in the head
reiterate my already known internalized
surroundings before bed after bed an idea materialized a desire for material not yet ascertained



offffffshkbvub i'm such a PAW loyal companion OTHER PAW


enough to make me confident i feel good

Monday, April 25, 2016

daffy let's get married duck.

flying hawk shipment cost chugga chugga choo choo stop it. stop it. it cannot cost too much to stop it. stop it. it cannot stop it never had a beginning only a happily ever after and we gonna go after that happily ever after and kill it after enslaving it for enslaving us. (what ya put in its coffee?) ha my piss so run. [this hurts my feelings.] yeah ya feelings move on. i'm gonna hurt ya gonn' hurt ya again. [ i don't blame you i know it be you. ] i know what ya been steppin' in. [oh, i'm sure you do.] you been eatin/ you so hungry/ in the head/ you been eatin'/ food/ buryin' ya self/ doin' ya worst nightmare/ e'en been eatin' the couch. [well, i am a dog.] (what kinda doggie i love doggies!) a who's the best dog in the world doggie. [a shriekin' hallelujah dog.] (you bettah get ya self to heaven if you gonna be beaten.) [i ain't. i only be facin' an ostracism.] go to hell. [that's where one goes to face ostracisms.] they gonna cut you and open ya just to feel ya then sew you up to make ya shut up. [i can hear it inside...the transmission is...foggy....and blocked by satan on the tv. i know his powers.] ya learn ya lesson? ya lreanalaenoss? yes ma'am all together guys how sweet/ the sound/ save/ wretch/ me/ i once/ was in/ a hurry/ sang/ offbeat/ darling?/ marry me

why ya...why ya so freethinking!

why ya so
ya so freethinking
ya we shud be naked kuz clothes hide us

don't you believe in sex as make-believe
sex is
everything except what it
xcept wat it seems
tits ass corruption
(but ya so clean)
i fucked up yissturdayturd

disappointed in you
tits ass corruption

the human animal
the hunt for destruction
tits ass corruption leave at the 
door to insecurity (all doors)

borrow me
shut the door
we(are inside ....the children are locked out
but they're dancing)
i will put it all back together

i know how to
i've done it a lot
i have thick skin cause of it j/k
i'm counting
on being
a misgiving/   bein below domination is so

i'm dinner
so thinner
kuz i'm dinner

Saturday, April 16, 2016

hi; third book completed.

the title is "never-anywhere", as in a play land wherein there's nothing to do and no place to go and it's jading. never-anywhere; determination as a mechanism to invent cause, by spider swinging in mid-air. i think it sounds cool as fuck.
for free copies of this or any of my three books thus far please contact me here, on google plus or through e-mail. i can be reached at and, of course, i'm always eager.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016


"angel" was rejected by a literary publication. like all submissions to literary "zines", it was probably a victim of bias.

rest in peace, angel. make love to the public entropy.

            i am born out of a tunnel into a tunnel. i feel like how i imagine a miner feels, a sense of confusion between life and death. my experience of life seems so formless, as if i'm making the half of it which i care about all up. ABC. 123. the smell of play d'oh is important.
            in my mind is where i keep my thinking, precious like a jewelry box. my thinking remains rigid, of its crystalline barriers i fail to chip away at because how beside myself i am over the perfection under the earth. i must look until it becomes confusing.            that's when my mind, tightening itself into a fist that has nothing to punch, goes soul searching- having no place to search other than itself, it goes deep inside. oh, ah; shiny.            the fist, i've noticed, is often provided a symbol of power (which never needs a symbol). power is not an autocrat; power is a golden rule. i continued to think of the same things, in the language i have yet to recognize, i just recognize the dialogue; i continue to wish for my mind the fist that thinks it owns my power to stop degenerating the way it is because i'd love to stop wishing for the same shit. giving up seems like liberation now. i see myself at six years of age thinking similarly to this, however reacting with perplexity and that's all i remember- you know how it is with children, they're busy not ruining the world with reaction after reaction; they're busy generating information then passing it elsewhere, convinced what we do is misplace. such is a defense we share, collectively- how we fear the roots of fear itself being founded in the unconscious mind because we know nothing about it- it's all guesswork- the land of innocence.            but my conscious gibberish is a real fucking peacock. well, i'm a lost cause, that's for certain; so, where is my mate? my conscious gibberish has yet to find its mate because it has to love itself first. that's not my mission, not if i can help it. it's a pretty tall order after all and as i like to hint throughout conversation i've given up on that kind of life.
            i think now; allow me to repeat what i think aloud. can't make it out. is this what not being able to think is like? what i hear when i say whatever it was i was thinking is that this is my fault; i don't love nature- i overlook the flow of organic movement to the effect that i don't even see it anymore i just see- things not touching each other, not connecting to one another- not having a chance at decomposing because things will not join, thus sparking a union, a birth, a creation. it's a reflection of my mind. how insightful am i to stay mindful of the way the mind works? the mind is a reflection that needs to be reminded of its ripples but i don't know anything about movement- i am a big subterranean hole unfocused on a hope for discovery.
            (don't listen to me- because that which i just said was bullshit.) i just need to change my habits. you know people like me. we just need to get jobs. no, real jobs. no, really real jobs. no, no, no, we're fucking it all up no matter what we're doing we just need to be bought by some autocratic all american company and then everyone in the family will say "congratulations" while clapping their hands. i got a job (not a really real one, nevertheless, note my courage of challenging myself). since i started working where i do, i've fallen back into an old pattern of playing hard to get with my anorexia except i'm not sure who's doing it with who- i think we're doing it with each other. the blind lead the blind.
            now anorexia, like other eating disorders, is exactly like the mind, when you consider that anorexia extends itself from ones brain and convinces one of what it has to say, convinces one to do what it has to say, convinces one to surrender- anorexia is the centerpiece of one’s life. move over, mind. someone else is talking. the mind, similarly, is also seemingly- and convincingly so- an appendage of the brain. as spoken prior, the mind, too, doesn't shut the fuck up about the same old stagnant shit; we are not born with our minds. the mind is a formation of one's reactions, it's a chain reaction itself; a catalogue of greatest hits; both a process and a result at once. the mind and anorexia alike are abstractions, very dark magic veiling ones interrelations with reality.
            but one just has to manhandle the somnambulist experience; just fumble while blindfolded 'til you get the hang of it and hope not to fall down the stairs. all it takes is play-pretend worshiping imaginary images, daydreaming about becoming images ourselves one day. nobody really grows up or loses their innocence- nobody really has any belief in what's happening to them because they're too busy attaching their experiences to judgments. if only we all surrendered to what i consider god. god doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't care. god's just a little boy fallen to the planet earth with a magic wand because he'd like to be a magician when he grows up, so he emulates magicians as presented to us now. he asks a lot of questions, never satisfied by the answers he receives; he's a good boy that always listens to his teachers respectfully (which is how heaven and hell were born). his feelings are constantly being hurt; he is always confused by the reactions of human animals.all the pain from destruction people feel and are so angry at god about is not something uprooted from his carelessness. he's only following what he was taught are wisdoms by his teachers. he's open to pretty much anything. he is a good little boy and i love him dearly.
            "i love nature, why doesn't it believe me?" we're in a car together passing trees. it's the very beginning of spring, the dismissal of winter's gusto, winter's reminder of our mortality (i've looked in its eyes and saw death). we generate the sight of the trees; not a single leaf in sight; they reach upward as much as they can stretch themselves.            there are some of those trees that i'm certain have seen better days- they look like life has beaten the shit out of them- you know, those trees whose trunks are split into hundreds of opposing directions, wilting with the spectral, self destructing rage of neglected houseplants; like a news headline that was all the rage a few weeks ago but hardly anyone remembers, "paris is on fire again..." feeling crushed, these decomposing trees that look like tall thorn bushes whisper as loud as they can, it's all they can do, their voices are disappearing into the invisibility of oxygen, "why don't you appreciate nature? why don't you love us?" in synchronicity, they all whisper to me and it sounds demonic. i'm so ashamed.            god looks at me. that’s all he does. his mind is forming, i notice- he's fascinated by my reaction. perhaps reaction is a sacred practice somewhere far from me and i don't know, it is true the mind does not exist without reaction- a chain reaction is the force that is all the mind is composed of.            at twenty years old he sees himself at twenty-one years of age thinking similarly to how i think now. "don't you love nature enough?" nature is everything, even believing everybody drinks. i see myself at thirty years of age this is the reaction my mind echoes: "you've turned yourself into a machine; it's all your doing!" (i don't care enough that i turned myself into a machine.)
            we must burn our souls like a pile of clothes we were raped in and go on a wild goose chase searching for the perfect cocktail of pharmaceuticals- surely, victory, therein. i wish to relinquish everything if that's what it takes to purify my mind as if such is possible.            and the clinicians are the coldest people i've ever met- i feel racist saying so because it is a blanket statement but when it's said that doctors have to be callused in order to live in luxury i'd like to say back, "luxury? they look like assholes when people emote and it's their jobs to determine something along the line of why people are emoting," and the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid and paid and paid and paid like they're engaging in a coked up jazzy dance and everyone has this bug crawling under their skin just a single bug just like their clients those looneys- life begins to fail to surprise me. i show them as to not talk shit, "my body is a diamond."upon my revealing my body is a hole that was once a decomposing tree; what is all is nature. (i feel insane in the places that make me safe.)
            it's understandable a clinician bear frustration considering even they cannot get inside my mind as if the mind is a bodily organ- as if it's the same thing as the brain, like how we're trained to believe almost universally. it's not. if only the clinicians could figure me out, considering all their accolades, you'd think they just would operate immediately. how- hard- can- it- be. keep in mind, your pain is your doing. they can't figure out what to do because that's your problem.            i observe myself in my formation, still with god who has persisted to follow me around. i'm of the ages twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four; i'm of a crystal ball. in a different place in my life at each age, i appear to work harder more or less, and the subterranean hole that's my experience of thinking is still something i'm doing wrong (i feel so badly). i'm still to be blamed for the way i feel and the things i think happening the way they happened; i'm not working hard enough; not reaching high enough to touch, delicately, that shimmering virgin, the impossible standard that i so believe in- maybe i relate to it because it was passive in each and every single choice it made for itself: "they made this happen to me". i'm beginning to believe in solutions because i never did before and my structure was either broken or unknown to me. i have a solution- i want assimilation, i think this has got to be it. i need to be bought.
            i began to hunt for assimilation when in scrubs, stripped of any pride i'd had, in a big white room- yes, they exist. "fuck," i said, cursing even more than usual, reacting to stress as a teapot under pressure from increasingly extreme heat does.a clinician and walks in with her team of medical students. the clinician, rather brusquely disrupting my speaking, "we do not curse in the psych ward, young lady." (the reason i was there,) i steered the subject, (was because it was all my doing, all my fault. i admit it. i'm not doing what i want to be doing inside my mind.)
            i smile and apologize. i needed to be bought. god wasn't with me any longer. god had moved on.
            my adventures in the consumption of pharmaceuticals, how i have chosen to be bought, prove to be unstable. i gained forty pounds in three months. at the same time, i gained an epilepsy diagnosis, a migraine diagnosis, and i lost my ability to sleep. none of my thinking pain went away. i was going along with the pharmaceuticals to be pleasing to my first long-term clinician. her take on these 'side' effects: "this is supposed to happen- you're coming out of your shell!" even my parents didn't get it.
            i was a good girl after all, i didn't know how to do anything else i was so obsessed with being good- however, conversely, embarrassed. my first clinician diagnosed this, as well as my condition, altogether, with an unheard of title: "a lost little girl lost in her own little world".
            still i went on to just work harder, however i could, whatever "working hard" meant to me at the time. if one is out of reach when it comes to receiving help, one must change their life all alone. (i must assimilate).
            unchanging of bewilderment, help doesn't offer the impact of crises i have a chance to thrive off of. "just get a job," i'd hear. join the masses and my wounds will heal, like beautiful daisies erasing the memories of war. i'd be so distracted by your multi-tasking- i wouldn't...think of myself at all. (throw my awareness out the window.)
            it's my doing, my terror is. i feel the sincerity behind these words so it must be true. fingers of fascists point at me from all directions, 'this is your holocaust, you know,' these are the sickest people i know pointing my way. i know they are manipulating me, so why do i quiver with shame? can i not prevent the manipulation? am i so susceptible? yes, of course i am- all humans are.manipulated somehow though i don't know how, i see myself overworking, fixed on beliefs that i know are transient- what knowledge drives the beliefs to stay with me, bringing me down, diverting my attention from the truth that's been erased from my memory. all i know is it's my doing, my terror is.
            i'm in my body, coming to after trying to kill myself, hoping i still have a chance at death, hoping at least for the failures of multiple organs. i learn i am a criminal according to a clinician that i presume has never thought extensively about death- at least not with that nihilistic magnetism. god, how i wanted to transmigrate and bury what is this current state as a memory. here i am. the clinician sends me on a guilt trip, leaning over me like a tower not yet lit on fire. "how could you do this? come on, don't you know you have so much to live for? didn't you stop to think about your family, how it would affect them?" all i could fucking think about was how i couldn't work any harder. i couldn't get away from death. i didn't want to get away from death.            like a flower i blossomed, as i had had enough- i was beginning to get offended, facing the gods of olympia who could do no wrong, on trial time and time again- so over my treatment that i stopped bothering to explain a blow-by-blow account of the things i was doing to attend to life somehow- i didn't tell anyone immediately but much much later i wrote it on my blog that i tried to kill myself because i was way too upset over a boy and i was way too ashamed over it. but i wish not for my suicide attempt to be your climax.            what it was exactly that was limiting me so, i wasn't to be quite sure- words couldn't describe my limitations. they weren't to be all for me or anything to work hard for.            i see all of my selves ever, each reverberations of one another- nothing stops any of them from rebelling somehow, because if they don't?- their hearts will be broken when you remind them of the ways they've been reacted to before, when they stop trusting you.            trust for me is like how love is for others. i want my drug; my drug, my drug. do you know someone that's holding? the act of diving in head first changes everything. you have potential to be the universe because you are the universe-then i don't know who you are any longer because i don't handle it well; i don't handle beauty well and it's the only thing i care about. endings do happen, you know- when my myths that've protected me, seemingly- they now disappear when i need them most. i'm both naked and ugly. i think this is what happened to god, who i've yet to learn from as i perpetuate my unknowing- using it as a weapon, unintentionally.
            my brain is terror, doctor; i cry all day. i only dream nightmares. i do all of my homework, teacher, because i'm terrified of not living up to my potential fully. i'm restless, this is what has become of me.
            you look at me as though i'm protesting against your invasive procedures, doctor- as though i protest against the only thing you know how to do. of course not. i'm glad you've convinced yourself of fulfillment. i'm glad for anyone that can arrange for themself a quick fix.            i'm willing to take risks to feel like i'm walking among the other people. it hurts so badly, you understand, living does- i think because it seems as if i'm pushed away from the people. i wish i could remember, or focus. i wish i could remember multi-syllabic words.            life is all about doing, particularly, doing for causes you’d rather not- causes you feel obligated to work for. doing is a real sweetheart, an angel- pearly, luminous, glowing with shimmering fairy dust that graces the planet with its nutrients. i've been touched by doing. i am an angel sent by god with the power of the entirety of mankind, though in the back of my mind, i know equations are bullshit mocking dimensionality- i defensively abide equations (don't you?). i discern a make believe fun little handgun that can shoot anyone. the handgun appears after weeks of staring at my right hand in passive resistance against all else. the gun is mine but i don't have the balls to use it against myself. i decide what i want is to give the people a hand in warming up for their next revolution. the frequency is inevitable- the earth must breathe, right? i walk down a city street more confident in my life then i've ever been; i love this gun. i shoot indiscriminately. i don't want to listen to their noise which too is my own. my mind narrows furthermore into a tight, almost inconceivable tunnel choking itself. i continue to walk, shooting. walk and shoot. walk, shoot. shoot. shoot. my duties are pedagogic. if people are going to die from now on it's because people make weak choices- it must've made them easy to register, to discern their movements from stronger people on the city streets. in my serene angel skin i tug at my own thread- i always have had to busy my hands. the devastation of the planet is in order, i watch as i orbit the planet, so proud of my children. i'm crying tears of joy. i watch it lose itself. (i'm so proud of myself.)            i defend a recently manifested myth- the planet will be born again with words to describe my former limitations. i don't know anything else, but i am confident i will gain. i can go on now. i may float away in space now, continuously desperate- but i still do have that handgun.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

ad. (command; threat)

turn your passion into profit now.

Monday, April 11, 2016

we will become the night when everyone knows they don't care.

time represents this moment (clean-untouched), and turns it
into a vulgarity- cheap thrills scatter.

the addict is elated

until they are not.

unreal modifying, homogenizing- we're going
to be thrown away soullessly when we're not

able to handle being asked too much of
any longer.

my enemy is not real to me
but i want it more than anything else

adoration is all that matters. this is the only thing i can turn to
to get my mind off of death. this is a displaced desire to live.

it's the only thing that can get you high anymore, huh?
you keep thinking all day
about your adoration
and you meditate on a swoon. swoon, swoon, this is what

i live on. so swoon on. soothe
the lament.

plain, boring, ordinary, plastic bag flying as
the wind in a street. doing it with your
sixteen year old daughter's closest friend.

"it's my first time!"

live. live. live. on. on. on

sunny sunny deceptive sky, warm day. nobody has ever taken the time
to transcend on our deceptive days. one day i will break it

and get beaten for it. my illumination lies in the action
of my language alone.

animals is what comes out of this.

the aspirin store.

it's happened again. i don't know who i am again..
most places around the world are better than identity
most places around the world are better
than identity than

what's that
darling darling, spread me open
and butter me up


what's that
oh that
it's a personal letter from the heart
that i bought at the store, of the overprices hallmark brand

it's the law to buy your shit, everything
you own needs to be bought
shit shit
peckpeck peck
shit shit

my dearmy dear, what's the law again? what's it gotta do
with doing the right thing? what the hell is the "right thing" anyway?
who says these false man-made dimensions aren't

just pipe cleaners? you know how i like it in and out of my ass
back and forth like a gunman externalizing their sadism. oh, it feels
so good
to get it out of me. there isn't much

but i'll make things seem so much bigger.
pull my trigger.
i'm much bigger.
pull my triggeril
ov egun s. i'm much bigger hisg
un wasde ploye d. i'm sure you've had birthday cake
before. now is birthday cake we use to exploit

our memories of the people who were killed
by pulling their triggers after never doing so
pull my trigger. what's that
pull my trigger. go in the other room
pull my trigger. devil devil devil devil devil devil

a little trucker came along and ruined everything because
he blames the world for his problems and he's angry over
sucking at sex.

i'm gonna put my load in you.


hey, you're narrating twisted sex again.

yes i have to or else i'll talk about death.

you know how it is, everyone having been raped. it's the sore spot
you don't recover from/

and that's how i'm always feeling most directly. be asked
to recover. the world is still raping me and i fear i'm raping
it back just as bad. it's difficult to live with this.

Sunday, April 10, 2016


the demand of hierarchy: bless your heart and spirit (made up symbols to reel people in and tell them to do anything) thou shalt produce, produce, produce. if you are 

home, by yourself, jump around the house
uncomfortable thou shalt

become paralyzed at anything but looking up.
thou shalt join a religion, as if religion means anything
other than most of what's wrong with this world.

thou shalt recognize the role of god as manipulated
on all sorts of people and other aspects of life. 
“this ugly motherfucker” was glorified by being in the cool magazine
that can’t give insight, but sells
their shit of their shitty friends to you

                        to make up for it
and is now your best friend too
and everyone’s. everyone is reading it.

"this ugly motherfucker" won't shut the fuck up about the
ugly motherfucker prior

and now these ugly motherfuckers are the dreams of
everyone. i masturbate to it over and over again. i can't stop
masturbating. america better

eat itself alive a little more quickly if i'm going to have to
continue living here.

there are victims in this, as always, there are victims. (uncle bob is in heaven.)
first of all, the marquis- he must've had an awful childhood he does not speak of, but i detect it. also, smother your eyes with skinny bitches who are victims in this. (they’re bound
to croak soon, anyway.) aren’t they
such dolls.

i reach out to them, dangling off a chandelier, off ceiling lamps, off shit hanging off the ceilings. "come here." i have to beg for permission to get closer. but i'll never be how they are. i'll never be perfect. nevertheless, i offer the pleiades shining, shining plastic in harmony to wrap themselves in until they stop breathing. they will stop breathing when they're not needed any longer. that would be when they've borne a good enough product.

for all



advertising adversaries


we fall for it

because somehow

we don't want it

to go away


will from now
on be (snarl snarl snarl snarl meow meow meow meow)
advertising, some “never wear fur” shit. you are not sure if you
could get involved with this advertisement campaign

but i need my appearance to be everything i have

and i don’t really have a choice, anyway.

it is obvious how oblivious i seem to be- oblivious to rape,
particularly. i get thrown around in my underwear. i'm a lone child
being raped by several libertines from one hundred
twenty days of sodom. but i'm getting paid 

so it works out.
you never know when the next backward bend of the elbow
is going to be a problem for you.

it is obvious how oblivious you all seem to be. the war
is here, the dragons wait to rip us to shreds
feeding their babies with us. caw. caw.
it is time

to back away from this bullshit. i know everything
is bullshit. i know. one day i will go. sometime. later.

Saturday, April 9, 2016


want to get married? no,no the shriek in the back
yard at night. not a reflection in the mirror. not
getting the message. not bringing the garbage out
at night. not saying hello to god. saying "i don't
give a fuck" instead. i believe in flames because
flames be all i see.

Friday, April 8, 2016


it's good that we remain interrelated, from
very far away i know
your heat...a fondness
inside me remains reserved
for your misgivings. the fondness

is my lover.
i like to believe

(which is wishful thinking) that you regret
fucking up with me. though i must say

you are an ignorant clown. how embarassing

rejecting your humanity to sit on a throne
alone and far from it
must be. must be hard.

i never
regret fucking up
when even i don't understand

why it's like this for me.
it's forgiveness
from me
i need

during such times. (it doesn't matter so much
anymore. i'm maturing.)

if you believe in our returning, do you suspect
it would all surround the astonishment
surrounding my mysticism?

do you suppose i could be made mystical? that's
very important.
do you suppose
i could be made by anyone

other than an unborn child? (i'm sorry.) do you know

a lotus that was around when i knew you
is still around, meandering

i've yet to learn from it? it dips below water into
mud and
everything is okay for it.

good night dumb teacher. my steadfast dreaming

heats under your demanding it not to.

when you think about it, your teachers
are only in this
for themselves, to fulfill

their own greed- as they interpret
something to keep their shit together.

let my readiness teach me new unworthy languages.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016



due to my overwhelming and irrepressible urge to "create" without rest, i'm polishing up a book i've been working on since january that is more like an opera to me than anything. be on the lookout within a week. why don't i just make babies.

stay tuned, you remain the same.

i think i'm...feeling better now that time has been...outlawed.....
do things....whenever..

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

guess a hieroglyph.

wherein i encourage you to read my book (please e-mail me- for a copy), spread the word of my book, whatever it is, kiss my tits, and guess a hieroglyph.

suck my dick
just flush it down the toilet
pull it real far
the plunger will take you there
friction makes me melt
crushed under orgies of you
i am alive

did you know i can't stop castrating my parts they keep growing back they're not
supposed to do that they
keep growing back
keep growing back'
they better stop doing that

did you suck
under water
on dawson's prick
while you were unable to breathe
and you thought
of injustice?

did you suck knowing it sucks to suck? i love it i'm really good at it i love sucking it's a really great skill in life

Sunday, April 3, 2016

hi; finished second book.

you can buy grey on my lulu account if you're shy. you can also please feel welcome to e-mail me at i will send you grey as the word document it is, attached to a reply e-mail.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

i run into a field.

i run into a field that's grey i see fire
i run past hurricanes, past flowers, scars orbiting
each other. i run
toward the burning. a bright light
wants to swallow me. i run toward the
glow that's to set me on fire.

i run into a field my skin comes off me, disintegrates
to give itself to the insects.

i run into a field, and i know nothing
again. silence allows its fire.

run. run into a field

i will let you hurt.

vex step one

okay. open the
window that you know the most

okay good. step two: let the captured
dangle out sill. your fingers

must be configurated a certain way.

devils speak of the way in which

she'll manifest. a sacrifice

to greet to madame hecate with, lonely


ender need to contaminate to alleviate
loneliness i am so impure
sparkle my sweetest friend)

wherever the wind takes me.

you must evolve like so       

            a mammoth


get out of town.

no more nonsense

let us all
head forward
to the internet

the internet
the internet
the internet

with as least rough
as possible

as ????????
as ????????
as ????????

single file
single file
single file

see what obedience
does for you?
you're almost fully