Monday, October 31, 2016

antichrist; sense of proportion.

this took an apparently necessary undesirable amount of commitment- i figured out how to set up my scanner.






Friday, October 28, 2016

haul, p. iii.

with cut-ups of "xo, dumbfuck" manuscript i forgot about. (one of them is anyway. if i find the rest, i'd love to do something with them- that shit was golden.) : )






magic flowers.

the war will not end
if we will not connect to it. we are in charge
and know nothing about our duties. how can we.
we do not connect.

if we do not connect, we send flowers.
so sorry for your loss.
the war will morph into another war we will insert ourselves into
flowers flowers flowers
until we get it,
and when we get it,
war will magically end forever.

we will not be bitter over being told stories
that we were fated to believe.
we will stop fighting. the dream will come true.
we will wake and see we are fighting
and stop fighting immediately.
there is nothing more wrong than fighting.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

housecoat.

i do not know what i want to do next. i do not want to plan for this
with constructs to homogenize myself with.
the bubble, as is, is okay.
i have been in bed for thirty years. my bedroom is frilly
my dolls, dusty. it smells like old lady. this is the room
in which i'd been concieved, and born and raised in.
i masturbate without stopping.
my fingers have erased my sex. my sex would've erased itself.
my fingers are not good at this, which is irrelevant. my mind is not good at this. it is good at
getting away with doing what it does not want to do, feeling
compelled to.
my mind is stubborn and unamused
by sex with the valiant, the troubador
for whom my bedroom door stays open,
creaking with the wind.
the dragon is here, rolling her eyes, telling me
my endeavor is fruitless, and my ovaries

have turned off.
there will never be children.
i will never turn bitter

over pets that did not fit my molds i'd set for them.
the dragon is here, joining her spine to mine.
it goes to sleep immediately upon dumping
her convulsions in my empty space. the empty space
i want to be fearless in the face of.
i put it behind me and get up
rejecting tradition that seems inexcusable.

i will never be young again. from now on, i will be stubborn.
i will be optimistic about that today, mourning
over the coffee pot, over the corn flakes. the floss. the broken hair dryer. the missed opportunities i see in things.
the optimism i will grow from.
i will tell everyone i know my gospel makes sense, relentlessly,
until it makes sense to me.

it is time to wake up. it is time
to be optimistic.
it is time to go back to bed
to later shrug off dreams.

hootie and the blowfish.

childhood; fugue of the mother. when in the car, my mother would transfer herself into the depths of emotions- as such often goes when emotion is hidden from conscious awareness- when the hootie and the blowfish song "only lonely" would play on the car radio. whenever my mother dreams about my dad now, she seems way more fragile than usual in a way that she does not seem to address. like maybe she's going to cry. she sings "nobody knows it but me" from that song throughout the rest of the day. one thinks that she's about to let herself feel sad. these are the only dreams my mother says she remembers.
dad, a part of me neither accepts nor understand your role in my life, in a way that i can actually somewhat trust it has nothing to do with the convincing  of my rage, who i am married to. as a result, i feel nothing toward you. it seems passive. so i manifest a dragon and allow it to rape me regularly.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

i am not the real girl.
a girl is only a girl when their favorite color is pink
and when they consistently refer to themselves
with female pronoun.
my brand of pink is rash-red.
i haven't thought of sex in ten days.
my writing is inconsistent.
my bedroom is pink, filled with dolls and perfumes. there isn't anybody to fool- i am not afraid
that i might fail.

think early,
very early,
very very early, knowing so much,
not knowing why i hate pink. pink like
the clitoris.
blue. blue as in tender bruises,
noirished male-parts.

Monday, October 17, 2016

immodest contact.

an arrow pierces my eyes the moment i looked, caught off-guard;
eyes widened with surprise.
it was always there, waiting. my looking its way
was chance.
(i did not mean to be eager. i guess i was ready to stop fighting.)

my sight vanishes at once. there is opportunity
to forget claustrophobia. i am preparing. relaxing. breathing steadily.

i'd wondered if i'd lost innocence- the rite
of passage we ignore as considering deceit. i did not mean
to be eager.
(the innocence was never a solution, itself.)
deceit becomes when we believe we will become humans
that we are not already.
with guilt and grief we impose deceit on ourselves, justifying
the triumph of deceit. the appropriation
of problem as solution. (the consequence
of denial.)
disease of our grasp is from clenching understanding around
what does not exist.
vowing ourselves to one cause
is vowing ourselves for war- one cause is against all the others, in which
we find disgust we look for and exploit, hiding
our disappointments in ourselves however we know how to.
trading ourselves until the zeitgeist becomes- that's when
we remain unsatisfied-

the dream has come true and we have misunderstood
what we were to learn from it.
it is not a mask.
the mask is that which is grasped.

failing to dedicate myself to my own biases, i do not know
a zeitgeist in myself. i don't know where to go.
i have not taken the first step to know where to go.
i feel no force.
i feel so lonely without force.
i need to go like how others go. in a new direction. like how the others
convince me they go. forcing myself
as though i do not count as anyone.

an arrow procured my baptism
against orientation, against mocking my education (against
emulating my education), against illusion of security.
the arrow directed toward my experience.
i visit what is not mine, feet barely touching the ground- mouthpiece

of the wind, at the times when the wind urgently demands
to be understood, when messages passing over roofs of houses
does not do.
agony is not the winds. it is not mine, either.

is it less influenced?
is it disturbing that influence can be a vestige of how it seems?