Friday, December 29, 2017


sleep. i roll my eyes to within myself.

sky, my lover, compresses downward
protecting me from cruelty.
that's what i perceive
destruction to be.

my absence is
the nightmares of war that bubble in your back.

my absence is also

my dreams are known
when you choose to let go of fighting me.

i release my grasp on you, throwing
my power to the arctic sky

in hopes that this could
somehow guide
my dreams outward with him.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

"insulated from nature, ungrounded, why should we be surprised at our own brutality?

Sunday, December 10, 2017

consciousness of consciousness of consciousness of consciousness
consciousness consciousness consciousness of of meow i am a tiger
i am a leo the lion rawr rawr look at me pounce on this antelope
consciousness consciousness venomous snake hisss hisssss i'll get that
crocodile/alligator for what he's done to me and my ancestors hisss
hiss consciousness ofo consciousness consciousness of consciousness
consciousness of consciousness

Monday, December 4, 2017

peace in my thinking.
peace in my thinking.
peace in my thinking.
i endure your gifts
and respect your stories.

i step into the jaws of alligator
and take in the littleness of my life.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

respect for the presence of samsara,
foreign energy within aura.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Friday, November 24, 2017

i trust the gravity that brings me to the ground.
i accept how gravity translates herself to me.

we are all shadow, and we reject it.
these rejections come and go through our minds.
may we accept the omnipresence of rejection.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

sharing balance of male and female, ganapati and durga. i find myself centered in my origins of light and shadow.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

the altar of abandoning pretenses and resuming childhood 🎔🎔🎔💗💛

Saturday, November 18, 2017

soul food.

"From a shamanistic perspective, the “symptoms” of BPD include feeling intensely connected to everything; therefore, become highly affected by everyone and everything.  They are not bad, they have a spiritual gift. They can sense the emotions of others instinctively and feel things that we cannot. They know how to make people feel as if they are reading your soul.
Dr. Marsha Linehan, the founder of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) and leading expert in the understanding and treating of BPD, explains patients with BPD are like third degree burn victims. Just by walking by them, you may hurt them.
Linehan had her own personal struggle with BPD and was and hospitalized for 26 months in 1963. In her discharge summary it states, “Miss Linehan was, for a considerable part of this time, one of the most disturbed patients in the hospital.”
It is reported that she had attempted suicide multiple times because she could not close the gap between the person she was and the person she wanted to be. The gap was insurmountable which left her desperate, hopeless, and homesick for a life she would never see.
Living with BPD is like the earth beneath your feet is constantly shifting and changing which keeps you off balance, scared, and defensive. It is a roller coaster of moods, thoughts, emotions, relationships, self-image, goals, and even your likes and dislikes at such frequent intervals it is overwhelming and confusing.
Is this a disorder? Or, like the shamans believe, is this a healer in training that already sees the truth and is strongly dissatisfied in the current reality? Whereas, the rest of us put on a mask everyday as we get dressed to go to a job we don’t like, to make money to buy stuff we don’t really want to impress people we don’t really like.
"An interesting side-note about depression and suicide: people often say out loud that they just can't imagine what would drive someone to suicide; well, I can.  It isn't a decision that is made like what to order at the drive through.  You're sitting there going further and further down into hell, when something clicks over in your brain and the decision is made for you.  It is as though another person takes over, someone else in your brain, who doesn't question why, or who, but only what can you use to do it. Your death has become a forgone conclusion.  Yes, your brain IS trying to kill you.
" after the recent droughts, there were stories of men who'd lost all their cattle. and unable to accept it, they carried on herding as if their animals were still alive.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

book of the dead.

this poem is gonna be the literary companion piece for this picture.

land where water earth and air, don't exist. not to say i saw red but red saw me and r-a-p-e-d meeee simplistic me.

here it's all about fire as mentioned and spirit. the latter i get angry with, 'kuz she don't stop searching, she's obsessed with making connections, and she keeps getting disappointed 'kuz she can't get no where that fire blocks off else she get burned. because she's naive, she's been a burn victim time and time again. like us all, she's an expression of cruelties.

look, ya see how i'm lookin upwardly and to the side, like i'm pointing my rage to a perceived inevitability? this is where my attention is at: death as somewhere you go rather than another life force you parallel. it's like trying to force shadow to have shadow.

one kud tell i am so sick of my hair being on fire...and other things are on fire too such as my skin, teeth, eyes, ears, nostrils, nipples etc. powerful symbols on our bodies we mistake as little. i'm hungry but it's not getting better, so i'mma turn it into a protest. #socialcommentary
my bones are brittle, my shits brittle when i ihave it, my veins are dried-up canals, and i don't breathe.
fires been getting out of control and recently became a parasite. i know i'm nineteen, but like sometimes i get really upset and need to lay down and seek solace in squeezing my stuffed animals in my bed. butit all really creeps up on me, all around me, even my fav color pink, i feel so claustrophobic...from anything, including abstractions.
anyway, like i laid down and my stuffed animals felt so small, and like i was abusing them by holding them. i switched from crying spells into letting out a cray drone, maybe i been thinkin bout the exorcist too much and my mom said, "you're scaring me, you're not even crying," and left the room and closed the door and i continued to release a demonic force/parasite (thing that's bad for me).
this has to be fire somehow, 'kuz i suspect i supress fire, internalize the fire of other ppls...kuz the way i think about fire is it's out of control, and i feel out of control all the time. but nevertheless: feels like it's my responsibility, one i mishandle. (#life-story)

this is the new che guevara t-shirt- MINE anyway, and i hope i inspire you: the new property stripped of backstory. nobody kno who tha fuck i am except i look bold from this angle there- stacey be playin' tha role of che today.
this is a landscape of destruction that keep revivin itself, or gettin revived somehow.
but that don't matta much, 'kuz the revival of destruction manifests as statements of destruction, sort of a precautionary tale of death being just as alive as anything else.

we only pay attention to those kinds of precautionary tales for half a second, and all that happens is we feel haunted. i don't wanna be that haunting entity any more.

and what i'm sayin' is like, "i don't care that there's problems no more."

and, "i'm allowed to treat myself unkindly," i call out. "i'm an athiest right now! fuck bitches everybody go diiieeeeee!"

here there be only walls offering no answers. so i keep asking questions, which get reverberated back to me.

dying is somethin new tho these do to pass the time 💔💔💔💔💔

Saturday, November 11, 2017

"death finds you already annihilated, and there's no one to kill.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

elephant grave.

the windows are closed; it's real cold out.
i'm the only one home. it's real quiet. can only mean

i must face myself.

the lamp has been broken for forever
not that i need it.
got mice i don't prevent. fruit flies. ants.
i'm so accepting

of all forms of life.

got no shame 'kuz aint want none.

phonez to my left, got her hot wet thing
on my mind and pinned to my bed, bitch

wrapped around my finger and my dick. got her
waggin' her ass by my
laptop's side, got her

by my side.

i'm the tramp who died young. cause of death
still unknown.

i'm doing stupid things
'kuz jaws is inside
and jaws only smells blood. i feel the weight

of her tail sway from side to side. pendulum
of my mind,

i am an ocean so my troubles can go left swipe,
vulnerable in these waters.

my bed is unmade
my sheets are stained

and my room filled up with smoke
and all 'kuz i find freedom in being careless.

"i am africa," is what i tell myself
to feel significant. to justify my shit.

my herd members turned their backs on me.
my tusks got ripped out.
mice are crushed under my weight.

i lay here wondering how i'm alive.
i cry while cursing the stars.

my history is ancient
and we're stuck on persecuting our elders.

i remind people where they come from
so they must just be scared.

i don't need to learn how to shoot an AK.
those who come from shadow
seek shelter in exploiting me, the virgin mary.

there is no hierarchy: people be
hungry ghosts, every last one of them, saying they
know me by heart. that i am not
corrupt enough.

but i'm the baddest of them all,

there is no chance of diamonds
forming inside me, no
oxygen, even- i'm pure void. there's

only the beetle on whom i
sit, who- almost just like me- knows nothing.
i've got a skull in either hand- skulls were once dogs

who took me over, which is why
i'm now the one going, "woof. woof".

there is business to attend to, shit
i need to sit with.
mind on my money
and blue light sucking my balls.

dusk crushes my weight
with her own. women are evil: *high-pitched cartoon voice* i'mma give you

something to  grieve over, but i'm not gonna
teach you how. tra la la la la la la la la la.

you ain't gonna make me break a
bead of sweat, not gonna
get me diseased like how you be. my soul

is older than man. my soul is pure

and unable to get fucked with.

it's me that's the one with the
serpentine tongue unfurling
from which a hundred baby spiders scurry out,

crawl down the throat
i choose to cum into.

they spread throughout the body.
each muscle cramps and spasms.

i know this affirmation is one which victimizes you.

perpetrator you think you fuck me up.
perpetrator fuck you, i'mma show you

who's whose li'l bitch, who's boss.

Friday, October 27, 2017

soul retrieval.

this is not the devil, girl. (i said to my cell phone.) this is only where i originally lost myself after the rape began, rape being all the actions of others in my relationships with them. i use the word rape because it's so serious that it transcends that whole heaven and hell dichotomy, and i want to be taken that seriously. this all being said: in a sense, this is where i left off.

it (re: rape aftermath) doesn't hurt less these days, or anything like that, and it doesn't matter that i'm in amazing shape now. 'kuz being talented don't matter no more for me, and i'm still gonna be a graveyard haunted by the rhythm of rape no matter what. people are still gonna hurt as my impressions of them become buried inside me and stay there forever. feed my soil and overtake my essence. i'm gonna look up each time something happens with them, "what does it mean that this is happening." not to be met with satisfaction, but for the act of looking for food. i'm a shark. people who don't ask themselves every once in a while if they're really willing to hang in there for this thing don't know karma like how we do.

i'm not afraid of the ghosts, and i wanna tell them i love them 'kuz it's good for them and somehow good for me. this is a graveyard of course there'd be ghosts. i just don't like that i'm more them than me, and i feel creepy forming new secret friends on a day-to-day basis.

a poem (shhh....i write them sometimes):

why would he tell me i'm unclean.
why would he call me racist.
why would he tell me i make everything about me.
why would he call me lazy.
why would he tell me i sound really stupid when i try to be smart.
why would he try to change me.
why would he tell me i'm the reason for his anxiety attacks.
why would he constantly tell me i smell bad.
why won't he let me meet his family, real reason.

why would everyone i know pay me compliments about my balls except my boyfriend.

am i unclean.
am i racist.
am i selfish.
have i not been good enough a girlfriend.

signs of an emotionally abusive relationship.
signs i was neglected as a child.
signs he was neglected as a child.
signs he's been more abused than me (read: AS HE KEEPS INSISTING.)

(bonus: signs i'm meditating all wrong.
signs i am meditating.)

back to the subject:

signs he wants me back.
signs my ex-boyfriend wants me back.
signs my ex still loves me.
hidden signs my ex still loves me even if he insists he doesn't.

do all our mutual friends hate me or are they just really that fucking flaky.
signs i annoy people.
signs i make people uncomfortable.
signs i'm rude to others.
signs i disturb the company of others.
signs people are just being nice to me.
signs i don't deserve the people i want to deserve.

i let him be a passive-aggressive type of abuser 'kuz i know he was in desert storm and i know wot it's like to have PTSD or whatever. what evurrrrrrr. hell, i would begrudgingly drive him to the liquor store upon his request even though i was concerned about his alcoholism and my opinion of peeps drops significantly when i learn they drink, or use social media. *my addictions are more idiosyncratic*. but for reals: empathizing without boundaries hurts too much and i just wanna be the kinda girl that cares about other things than boys, or that can do that imagining a bubble around myself meditation. but i don't seem to be ready yet. after all, i'mma reiterate: people don't know karma like how sharks such as me and my ex do. hunters awful at hunting.

update: here i am layin' on my bed all depressed n' shit. boys boys boys boys boys boys boys. what will i ever do? i love boys but all they do is ghost when they're under the age of forty. the ghostly fingers of boys, a colony of them, lightly tracing my skin all over me. hundred of ghostly boy fingers at a time, of every monochromatic shade of the rainbow. they all suck at communicating and that's the opposite of wot i need. i want the extremely non-douchey image the boy sold to me, 'kuz i'm still so convinced that's who he must really be and paid me the honor of letting me see. caveat: THAT IMAGE is the projection of my self, not the douche moves they pull when they turn superficial.

my history as it continues:

signs this guy likes me.

how can i tell whether this guy likes me or is just being nice.
how can i tell if this guy likes me or not.

signs this guy either likes me for me or just wants to fuck.
signs this guy feels better when he's around me.
signs this guy loves me.
signs this guy wants to marry me.
signs this guy thinks i'm true love.

signs this guy likes me but won't admit it.
signs this guy is gay.
signs he has a girlfriend.
signs his girlfriend oppresses him and i bring him hope.

this weight is bringing my ass down and i wanna ask these guys why they still haunt me. i guess 'kuz they're not really dead, but 'kuz they started playing dead to me, like baby possums. my object constancy is thrown off as is so i'm shedding tears that translate as words to the boys, or, those who make up my silent audience: "i don't wanna liberate myself from my romanticism so i'm gonna think of you fucking me over and over, even after the shape of a dick don't make no sense no more. this romanticism i speak of, it's wot kept me held together as a neglected child, and a big part of me is *still* that neglected child."

update: every time someone doesn't reply to my texts right away or doesn't make eye contact with me i feel like i'm being abandoned, like i'm an object of sadistic fetish for the universe, who's actually the devil #i can't even
actually the devil
actually the devil
actually the devil
i see
i see the
i see light in shadow
musta sold my soul
actually the devil

signs i
fuck oh god crrreative block musta sold my fuckin soul

fuckin history, cont'd:

signs a guy is crazy about me.
signs a guy i just met is smitten by me.
signs of attraction in the first meeting.
signs a guy i barely know is interested in me.
telltale signs he likes me.
signs of flirting between a girl and a guy.

signs a shy guy likes me.
signs a shy guy likes me.
signs a shy guy likes me.
clear signs he's in love with me.
signs he's falling in love.
signs a grown man is falling in love.

why would a guy who likes me suddenly disappear.
why would a guy talk himself out of liking me.
signs a guy is ghosting me.

reasons why a guy would ghost me.
real reasons why a guy would ghost me.
absolute real reasons why a guy would ghost me.
why the fuck would a guy ghost me when he just liked me five seconds ago.
what the fuck.
what the fuck.
what the fuck.
seriously, what the fucking fuck is missing from the diets of #millennials, except me.

quiz: why would a guy ghost me when he likes me.
quiz: why the fuck would a guy ghost me when he likes me.
quiz: was i too eager.
quiz: did i do something.
quiz: was my childhood trauma showing.
quiz: is it always this transparent.

"wot's yr disability?" he texts me. ooooo, someone's worked up the nerve to express his curiosity-guess he found out somehow that i'm retarded, probably by "happening" (<---yh a="" around.="" disabled.="" follow="" it="" me="" p="" re="" real="" rt="" s="" that="" to="" turn-off="" you="">
"what on earth. lol," i imagine myself texting him after he comes crawling back, "i have a bone to pick with that word because it's enabling of our collective belief in weakness. and like, do i seem disabled-like to you? i'm happy, vegan, a white witch as in: i have a buddhistic twist on my practice, my totem mainstay is a phoenix, i value compassion and community, i've committed to multi-level, tremendous amounts of work toward my emotional well-being, i volunteer/participate in activism (read: used to...i feel bad that i don't care enough about changing the world) at food not bombs, i'm in touch with shamanic past lives, i'm a straight a student, i love the people in my life and life itself, i meditate everyday, i'm a prolific writer and painter, i take care of my dog who had serious issues until me, i'm good to my family, and i'm grateful for the universe for her shelter. *but* i do need validation for my expression of my belief in disability just as much as i do when i express capability: i have complex trauma and epilepsy. a combo that makes me special and makes me see the world in a way other people would wish to so that they could die famous artists. my mind is a constant seizure and i still can't figure out whether i was sexually abused or not and if it matters anymore that it's served as my center. and what do YOU do to empower yourself? well? WELL?"

"*genuinely shivering, intimidated*," him. "what i did was wrong. i feel really bad i just...i don't know. my feelings for you were so strong that i didn't know what to do with them except chicken out. i regretted it right away. and...i don't like confrontation and girls scared me off a long time ago, lol. may we try this thing again; may i take you out sometime? i'll take you anywhere you want."

double text: "and honestly i don't do much to empower myself."
third: "i'm just so hung up on being a coward."
fourth: "i've been pussy-whipped a lot and i feel insecure in the face of a girl that's obviously not that way."
fifth: "i'm so sorry. really."
overkill: "i'm just so remorseful over this shit."

"with all due respect," me, "giving this another shot would be a disrespect of myself to myself. your flow disrupted my flow, and i've been finding it hard to accept. i understand this points to my own inner-world of attachment to certain house-guests in my emotional body. i'm still projecting nevertheless. all the best to you."


the fairies are biting at me hardcore (re: caprice is wat upppp): i'm doing all sorts of stuff in my determination to find true love. i'm bored without it. in addition to burning it, i've been annointing myself with the oil of cinnamon bark along the chakras aligned with my spine, and dots of apple oil around it, like i am an apple tree. i've also been dabbing dragon's blood up and down my legs, because it's sexual. this morning, i massaged my face and neck with the secretions of my vagina.
i carried around two apples today, ate them both out in public at different times so that the air would pick up the externalization of this energy i wish to share and spread its pollen. i did stuff like, i imagined you coming along and saying, "stacey, i'm just...gee, i'm so sorry, and you didn't deserve that...i have internal conflicts, and it has nothing to do with you. let's try this again?" and i pass you one of the apples after blessing them both with the malachite wand i carry from my neck, and break off a few leaves of a small branch i'd been carrying, sprinkling them over you.
a bee joined me as i ate the first apple. i don't think this was you, because you have not been a warrior yet. it occurred to me that this bee, true to his brethren, is a warrior, as are hummingbirds and butterflies. i imagined this bee would carry my intentions back to his hive, where all the bees would leave to spread my intention along the vibrations of the great mother. while charging the circle tonight, i asked the moon to send out my intention, as i annointed two pale yellow candles and a lunar candle with apple oil. then, i made a deep red and pale rose smudge wand.
all sorts of folks come and go, but you still haven't wandered back. you're a ghost that split in two: yourself as a force of light floated away from my graveyard, and the other part of you, won't get off my fucking case. the role of this part of you is to represent the part that went AWOL. i hate to say this, but it's the illusory experience of you i created in my mind that's my lover right now. your mask i bear inside myself is worn on the face of love i extend toward myself.

current sex partner i'm interested in: a guy that's never fucked before that stays hard forever who recognizes and respect my prowess, who will let me do all the fucking, who i can look at myself without denying my glory through.

Monday, August 7, 2017

picture book.

this girl's name is white, five years old, from the suburbs, where all the houses are uncomfortably close to one another. the houses chant, taunt, etc., "girl you'll still be a virgin even after you fuck a million guys."
house is looked in on but she don't care- too young to be rewired by paranoia. got "circe" tattooed on her ass. got "animal mother" buzzed into her hair.
too young for the news, computer, or thinking money is anything other than stupid. gets all angry at herself 'kuz she dunno how to pay attention, or how to retain information, unless it's the kind picture books are made of. all she wants anymore is picture books...she knows that's where god is at.

it's dark out and she's awake. the animal, cute friendly jaguar, whose eyes she sees through is asleep. these are his dreams in which he gets to know her, which is weird.

this is the kinda girl you'd expect to never figure out potty training even though she wasn't a crack baby (per se).
girl that you laugh at because incidentally exposing failure (inhibition isn't her forte) is her ultimate truth. everyone has a shitty concept of failure except her.

she looks like meat with hair on it and is that. if you drew her, that's what you'd make of your drawing. example: she talk about sex. she fucks everyone very subtly. does she mean to? (bitch ya know ya mean to.) "i'm a goddess of fertility. of course i fuck everyone."

she's a brat, at the end of the day. to some, this means she's abusive. (whatever this means is missing.)

kinda girl that, while sitting on a toilet, gets distracted, and presents either breast to an imaginary friend coming down from the heavens. an old friend that isn't real anymore. long hair envelopes her- this is spider choosing her, spinning her in his web, saying shit like, "i've got an act of love for ya." she likes spiders like she likes doggies (meaning a LOT).

"i love you, here, lemme show you," she says to him. they both take off their glasses to see that they're really seein'. as if they're preparing for sex.

she's singing to him about giving him her milk like a lullaby, except nothing comes out of her nipples. listen: this isn't because of him. just somethin' she wasn't ever taught how to do. therefore, she will never be able to give him life, and he will not be able to serve as her reflection. this is somehow how she was taught to communicate and is the only thing she cares about. he's mad, throwin' a tantrum, but he wouldn't be if he would just open his eyes and see something outside of himself. he'd see she's a lovely young lady. if only he would just open his eyes.

girl isn't afraid of going crazy. isn't afraid of death, rape, or selling out. likes high places, swimming in the ocean at night- there are accolades attached to getting to know these things. she's pregnant with wondering if, since she's so unafraid of things that seem authentic to her, if it's really fear she feels in regards to the things that seem inauthentic. maybe she just feels authenticity is getting confounded and we're letting it.

"just wait momentarily," she awkwardly says to mr. spider, about her nipples not producing milk. "it's just been a while is all. i just need to warm up. gonna get this thing to work." she's talkin' like they're sharing a sexual intimacy but she just doesn't get that there's nothing like that going on between them. she's still bein' spun in his web though it's more like being embraced by heaven for her.

then she, or, let's be real, i, have a dream in which i pull down my diaper in which a stillborn bird, so serene, is bloodied, is sayin' "mama" on repeat. at this moment, i begin looking up schizophrenia symptoms on the internet. i think would make me interesting to have it. i'm trying to fit into them, like i'm trying to fit into clothes that are too tight. this is what i'm hungriest for- sickness, that is. since sickness is fucked up the only way to make sense of it is to make it become everything about you. sick things i'm doing to reaffirm my sickness to myself: i'm takin' my clothes off. i'm givin' all my stuff away and hoarding the organs of other animals into my body, late at night, when i'm alone. extra stomachs so that i'm a peace-loving bull. zillions of hearts so that i don't know whose pet frog i am.

this is what sex is like when you're unsure of it. and you have a daughter from it, always.

spider, look what ya did to me. ya didn't need to try to persuade me into your embrace, but ya did anyway 'kuz you was havin' some fun. you said shit to me like, my essence was something lunar, therefore my shadow don't exist. thereafter, ya painted me with your silvery, glittering come, so that i could move forward in this armor that with your eyes you told me was special. lookin' at myself in your zillions of obsidian eyes was something like scrying- i felt so small (and ugly, obvs) about my existence like how the evil queen from snow white must've, especially next to you. being human is the most fucked up thing. at that moment i began feeling like this, you scurried away, presumably back into the linen closet.

maybe the jaguar whose dreams these are woke up when that happened, so i had to continue without magick, unless i was gonna cure myself with my addictions.

plants die of frost and butterflies fly south: winter is comin' and i am lost without you this time of year, when we must zero in on hunting, thinking only of meat. and at the same time, i can feel myself becoming suitable again, just like how i do each winter- wanna see the cold out there make sense, to see things how i feel them. wanna feel okay with noticing distance before anything else. i hate to say this, but i wanna see other people experience this, too, so i feel a little less anomalous about myself. i'm tired of being alone, which i am without you.

btw, i'm still coated with come...i'm a soldier of being fucked over, which is how i interpret your abandonment of me. after sittin' around for forever, refusing to bathe, i turned white. i got used to feeling like i was wearing a full-body cast and felt a lot of pride in doing so. it made me feel like people must think i'm interesting. the absence of color became me, some rationalizing part of me said.

my name is selene. nobody knows they're prayin' to me like how they do 'kuz all they do is hear my own prayin'.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

nanny nanny poo poo.

neighborhood boys versus neighborhood girls is where
this duet is at

(newsflash, we're all gonna grow up
and fuck each other):

i could die if i wanna is how serious my illness is. you can't picture it and/or
you're just jealous is all,


my havin' a serious illness has got nothing to do with me not
doing my homework. just
that i don't know how to wrap my head around the

whole having to do homework thing.
anyway, i don't know how to read and instructions are stupid,
ugly bozo.

i only think in people so i'm only gonna talk about that
and only when i wanna

is how serious my illness is, a lot like PTSD.

let me introduce you to the army i've raised
in my head, conglomerate

of all the people
whose acceptance i'm desperate for (golden rule: sharks don't sleep).

here are the people that i am a matriarch of:
01. correct answer: b (the asian girl)
02. correct answer: a (the white girl)
03. correct answer: d, all of the above (the brown girl)
04. only correct answers; (the black girl)

do you see? see? look. it's me, the shaman/the anarchist, with whom
ya play jump rope

(the game at which
it doesn't matter if ya suck.

i have real authority, so i'm instructing you,
and it's not
uncomfortable for me: i tell ya, i'm generating
awareness. open your mind. look.

if you knew that i can't look at things 'kuz
it hurts, you'd recognize me as resilient
and wonder why
i'm not out-and-out violent.

you're stupid
no you're stupid, so look
la la la la
i'm not looking i can't hear you
i'm sayin' la la la la la la la la la though as in, "nah."
you're not looking really like you claim to be doing
i'm being persistent: look
i said, "la"

we shouldn't be doing this la la la la
i'm not listening la la la la
we shouldn't be doing this la la


i'm not listening gimme ya drrty cunt

we shouldn't be doing this
is the name of my sweetheart

i'm not listenin'
too ready for ya drrty cunt

always come back to rape don't it
is the name of my chaos' heart

la la la
*clap clap*
*clap clap clap*

Friday, July 7, 2017

i am rejection mind.

enter, enter rejection mind.
beyond your gates i am glacial i am safe.
your nectar my mouth, hive.

i'm at a loss and i don't care. ruling out the performance art i do
in which i make teddy bears out to be the bad guys, as i'm too old
to admit they still mother me kindly, yet too ashamed

to admit i don't play pretend with them anymore.

memory, or guardian, i think it's you

that has something to do with this. i have news
i'd like to know your response to. (is it one protective?)

i'm getting abused again. huge chunks of me feel younger
than ever. i look back and think, you know, that was abuse then, and

i can validate that.


if i was president, here's what i'd abolish, for you: just no more of any of your crutches. that's to say: no more money. no more time. no more bitching and
moaning. no more
talking about donald trump- i miss george bush. no more being a bad listener.

no more being dumber than me. no more machismo. i'm embarrassed to have
anything to do with it. it makes me feel
like i can't be an anarchist.
no more internet addiction (that one goes without saying).

and the rules for myself:
number one: addiction is always allowed.
however: no more bra, no more underwear, no more makeup

no more white skin (it makes me a tourist),
no more meat, no more sugar

no more waste except
the disappearing kind (i was never a good enough anorexic), gotta

do me like my hair's on fire.

whatever abuse has to offer me: no. i can't believe
i have to keep learning from this.

i am rejection mind.
it is possible to be safe without power this way.
nectar, mouth, hive.

the ferryman.

message me
on facebook. the format
is flexible. all it
requires is
you lie to, or, come on
and all
the twelve year old girls

and only
twelve year old girls.

you like it best
when we make noises
like squealing kind of noises
and blush
going hehehehehehehehe
in our schoolgirl mini skirts

so fucking twisted
by the advertisements
of prostitution
we're surrounded by

and so becoming we are
in our fear of
drawing attention
to our inadequacies

which is
about us
('til you)

me and all my friends

be studyin' porn
to see
how we're supposed to be
though not gettin' it

we be suppressing
our sneezes
i guide them into
your man cave

where it is that
we let ourselves be:

we start talking about cock
and only cock
for the rest of our lives

until you
cheat on me with them- part of
the process. betrayal
is when we
become women.

don't stop, daddy, oh my gosh, you're
so big and hard daddy, as in you're your
dick, so fucking oh my god....ohh....*whiney moan*

don't stop don't
you fucking stop spit
on my tits please daddyyyyyyyyy

an example of what
you'd wanna message

it'd go something like,
"haha lol [girl's name], that was
a really funny joke
you just said, you know

i had a real rough day
and you made me feel better

i'll bet you're a princess

i'll be you're the one
meant to cure my disease"

handsome prince, handsome prince

you just gotta be
twelve in spirit
is all it takes

and when
we're doing it

and i hear me working on
convincing myself

that you're turning
from a toad to
a prince

and not
the other way

i'll be sayin',

"where's that ribbit, ribbit
comin' from

all's i want
is for you to reply,

"it'll only take a minute
for me to kick that habit

it's something
we can laugh at

and even
turn into something

this'll be
the only caveat

to our
delight, dare i
imply, our
ever after

and i'll just say, "wot's sexy
mean?" and you'll
just go...well...*spank*

and when
i'm a star
which is what
you're giving me the chance to be

my name'll be something like
"teehee", like
that of
the ghost's

that's wandering
inside me, it's copying

the shape

of your dick (which is mmmmf fuck yeah oh)

and, unlike you, has
everything to do with
denying light

my hope, my

this things
only spell on me
is determining

the direction
of my future

"well i'mma be
carryin' cancer cells," is what

i say to it, "i'mma be kind and
well known
for all
of humanity,"

pretty, pretty princess
yes daddy yes i'm your pretty, pretty
oh fuck...i don't wanna come on your...well,
i feel so embarassed...i don't want you
to see me not being a princess...fuck...oh


in pink
pink and secrecy
are the same thing


Wednesday, July 5, 2017

survey says.

"but why was sitting, enjoying nature, or something like it, better than creating some representation of it? i never thought that way about it in the past, when it was a disposable camera, or an easel and watercolors.

Monday, July 3, 2017

i want
for what's gonna kill me

to be my suffering
from the overload
of artificiality

so that people
stop to consider
maybe that's actually a thing.

i don't really give a fuck
if they take action
because they look stupid
(like they're throwing tantrums
that've been done before
doing that, too

unless parts of my body
are thrown into the windows
of the UN

or other world rulers
like that

by my brethren
as they shout,
"how come you fucked her,
but not me?

that's fucking new.

how i survive now
is exactly how i survived
in jungles

except here
i can't even.

i'm in jail here. luxury
is somehow a jail, and somehow

nobody knows
how to feel it just like that.

this is so much
of what unconscious content
is comprised of.

so we need it
so that we have hope.

when she's fetal
inside our bodies
and we're fetal
inside hers, at a moment when
we're hungry
but can't do anything
about it,

that's when
we say,

come forward

nature is fine
without manipulation
and i'm ready
to have a word with her
as is.

this is the only spell
that needs
to come true.
been kissing god's ass
for forever

and this is not just pathetic
it's also childhood shit
so this is definitely torture.

while my parents
were getting a divorce, the third

entity, which was
their real child: the sum of
the two of them
had died in an airplane crash

with me
and since there was only us

only i could see
eat it

and this consuming
caused it to come back to life
in me.

sudden cancer half-ate it
without bothering me:
we was jumped
by several guys at once

being unable
to distinguish

from the other

all of their masks scared me so i
shit everywhere.

and it stayed that way

there are no cures
except fantasizing

that there are: guys

i'm too shy to ask out
fucking me.

sound of a balloon popping. of a recorder. my dog
panting as he guards me. cancelling field trips. teeth
falling out in dreams. symptoms
not matching up with shit the internet says
are symptoms. calling myself

a child-woman. a shaman. calling
meditation meditation.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

division into continents was
exciting, meaning, a nervous

centered around hope.

my response surely reveals i'm an unrepentant snob. this is

a way to give myself control: change like this is a fuck up not mine
and i'm the only one reacting uniquely to it.

if she warms up (they say
about me)

we suppose she's a volcano

she'll be warm, right? volcanoes
are always warm?
and she might get

even warmer
as in
warming up to us

becoming an equal

we must listen to
and fuck is she wise

let's rearrange its frailties
by callin' em out
for their strengths

(mister potato hed)

get her
to explode

provoking god to come 'ere
come 'ere and discover us

recognize we're yours
we feel your feathers touch
our faces, astronomical owl
as you gather us

making heaven an actual thing

(shoes, eyes, smiling mouth, and hat; old school actual potato)

except me.
my roots
cannot be dismantled.

i'mma say: i am more than
my grasping
to anything soft, more than

my desperation, my rehearsing
what would happen if abandoned.

i want you to fuck me so bad (i.e., really wanting),

i am being wanting
to be equalized
in the eyes of others. (i'm turning into a person

shouldn't of done this to me

i devote to

while looking

over my shoulder, to see
if passion gained
from suffering, the number one deity,

will happen to be around.

wanna ask it why the
fuck she don't care about
me and

when the fuck am
i gonna transcend, how
come i just have to roll with
the punches, replaying

resilience over and

can i

show you my hair and show it to others

without losing respect? is that the kinda sacrifice you need from me?
to ask that is to put it out there

that i'm open to

the possibility of feeling

when i'm not- no, not unless

i'm itching to go crazy. i've put out
fire, or, my happiness,
many times before. shaved my head for

robes, as a way to tell you
i appropriate in ways responsive

to the face of sacredness

constantly shifting for me.

but the heart of this is really: i
appropriate through my

suspecting that you are missing-

i'm surrounded by faeries, they're
existing for me in ways

i'm not okay with. they bite me in my sleep.
that's their only language.
i am their mother.

my nipples drag along the ground.

my purpose in life
is to be in charge of villains.

my faith is irrelevant.

i look over my shoulder, suspecting
i can change that from being true.

fetish: a duet.

i fuck you. ain't no shame.
shame is the one thing i was raised without
a sense of.

you know who you are. no need to name names.

you askin' me how i sleep at night.'s the high of
being on a platform like the one i got. it's, the lividest, hottest

sex, the kind you continue thinking of even when
your wife and kids are, it doesn't even matter to me
that i'm "ugly" or whatever.

"tell me i'm nice," is what i pull you in to say, going for

a hook so that you listen to me. instead, i freeze, not because

i'm a cold fish, but because my mind
is escaping the moment, as you

rape me, your dick feeling like
loose shit contained by the thin skin of sausage,

webcams everywhere, daddy.

destruction must have a  rite of passage we're
presented in our formative years
this must be it, like that dream i had when

osama bin laden captured me and other kids. favoring me,
he spared me from his murdering me

and granted me paradise, his
child in me.

"this birth is not my light," i said. "i must
find a way to be okay

with murdering my own child."

which didn't happen.

a pet
births herself from my chest, of all places. my heart probably
turning into something new.

i lift my
shirt. pet stacey comes out,

the girl that's always gonna be shy. she
admits she wants to learn how to suckle

like how my brothers did when
their lives weren't spared. slut.
her real name is iraq

learning it wants to fit in
mostly because
it's not allowed.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

"your body is perfect," i heard in my ear like an echo. it was, wasn't it? i would have never known if he hadn't told me, though.


Thursday, June 22, 2017

i grew you: duet.

my involvement in accidents
is a little

for me.

what's happening right now is
that's me disappearing. yes, one can disappear further

than they already have.
i do it when i need myself the most,
the fat that breaks my fall.

she's burying herself past
reception, into winter, pretending
to be an iceberg
until convinced.

it's safe to be where praise is unheard of.

i am the satyr
whose scent she does not trust.
it's a shame this is the only hymn
i'll ever know.

Monday, June 19, 2017

"i knew that as long as i didn't confess to murder, no one would know. there was incredible and increasing pressure on me to confess, so i had to learn to dismiss my own thoughts and emotions so i could stay alive. if i was strong enough to do this, no one would ever catch me.

Sunday, June 18, 2017


cherry, the overfelt red,
is on
overdrive: "me and stacey

go everywhere together."

high hopes

that my lover, horizontal line, a
former paramedic,
will notice our son has his eyes. high hopes he will return.

tongue has left sesame street. not to say
i swallow
my young, rather, he matured past me, repulsed
by his relating to me, and left.

we put a spoon on his naked body to
keep him warm through

these harsh winter nights. it got me to stay in place, underneath, birthing a
new wild animal everyday.

“thou art not mine,” i abandon
each of them, each, a cop, upon

my ritual i've got worked out: trust fall to the floor
with a socialist salute.

i've learned to prefer the company of tile.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

color wheel: black.

there are only so many animals
i can turn into
before all that's left

is revealing

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

this smile
is one that's modest

a sign
of health, or, worthwhileness.

true blood and vomit mess, not
like how we believe

such to be;

this is a tattoo i regret. i resist
more happening to it

other than its own echo. a dream wife's religion

betraying shape of expectation.

Monday, June 5, 2017


maybe i do not see god
as i expect myself to

my relationship with the trees
frustrates me. it mirrors

myself the wall
that is the only thing i know.

the face of god changes even
into those whose medicine
i overlook:

i do not escape waste, not
this time;

succumb to being
a belonging. this too shall get something to begin.

when the sun comes up
all reveals itself as illusory.

Saturday, May 27, 2017


presenting a bowl of it, i offer
my blood to the gods. i do this when i breathe among others.

it trickles onto their feet, sprouting
a fungus out of their skin.

they go back to what they were doing.
i then realize

that my playing my lyre for them was
all in my head; her body

i tossed aside.

Friday, May 26, 2017

"isn't it weird, how nothing coming out now even mentions what's going on?

Sunday, May 21, 2017

< 3

Wendiann Alfieri is a weird writer. She has been a weird writer for years. She doesn’t think there is any other way to describe herself. Her favorite color is purple and her favorite animal is the turtle. If she were to do anything at all in the world, she would make everyone and everything equal to each other so that everyone would treat others with respect.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

"there's no more education, no more culture- if culture depends on a commonly understood history- and perhaps no more middle class in the united states. there's war.
"your problem is desire. you've tried unsuccessfully to resolve, dissolve desire through work. as a result of this repression, either you must go to war, or you are at war. the cards are unclear on this temporal point. you're now moving through the negative part of that dialectic; there'll be synthesis when your centralized power has died.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

co-dependent relationship.

it's you
i open the window for
because fresh air is healthy
and you're all about demands sometimes.

i feel frozen. what can i afford, or, what more
can i do for you; when is the next day
they will equate
so i can know i have
my strength to look forward to validating?

i deny acknowledging
that i do everything for this relationship
because you are unable- you are a queen,
you've never moved a muscle,

and sometimes, my hard work
i dedicate to you
fuels my frustration; that's when i tell you
i get you're amoral, incapable
of caring,
and this really hurts my feelings, confounds
my shit; where do you go
when compromised? i need space
i'm not allowed to have.

there is no value
for my wants seperate from you anymore,

just missing, aching.
i know it seems irresponsible of me to care little about
origins (sometimes i think it would be
radical, accepting, responsible, brave
for me to abandon all obligations
all of them, yes, all-or-nothing
it's only names of moons
i care about
give me romanticism; care about me while understanding,
equate hope

twinkle twinkle twinkle
lyre lyre lyre

Sunday, April 16, 2017

sex sells.


i added four pictures of paintings, previously unshared, to my portfolio, and i changed its address. thanks for looking should you choose to.

Friday, April 14, 2017

i believe so much in growth.
this is the part that grows legs
this is the part that grows blowing bubbles
this is the part that matters
this is the part that's nothing and needs to be nothing to begin with so beautiful things can happen
this is the part that's buddha
hey buddha
do you see me, laughing fuck?
do you see me under my tree
that is the tree that matters the most to me?
what was it like abandoning your family?
i'm abandoning my family, because of you, because i'm curious
to unearth soul from under the mass
of my own isolated suffering.
must be made, because
our emotions weren't ever

we are not mourning doves, nor
are we swans,
together forever together forever means blah blah blah blah blah kinda protocol
my scent is onto something.

confused about the whole being an animal thing.

Monday, April 10, 2017

okay i edited this, because this following passage was even more rejuvenating.

"So much a part of being an American in today’s world is being awash in this spectacle of separation. Thus we constantly are complaining, but never doing anything about anything. We always have an opinion about everything under the sun, but never an overall analysis of the totality of the systems of power and control. Most Americans are in a constant state of passivity yet also extreme anxiety about our inability to change our surroundings, which often leaves us in a constant state of waiting for someone else to do it for us. Thus, many despise politicians, but also are always waiting around for the right one. And while we wait, this system gives us the ability to comment on everything and document every aspect of our lives, but never to examine the shallowness of these lives or what makes them so. To be an American is to celebrate the resignation of agency in the face of statism and the industrial capitalist economy, yet celebrate this reality as a virtue. 

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

when guru says you can do anything possible
and so much more,

i will forgive them for seeming unreal when they
turn to me, saying, "aside from you. you really
need to learn to enjoy fucking up.
(e.g., putz about farting, head droop toward
cell phone here, pick at ear wax
there, etc.)"

it will be known that i've been too poor as in
unable to listen without
the interference of ascetic mindset. not allowed to exist
without conserving the memory
of anorexia i.e., the good ol' days.

mirror is dissolved for them. they're able to see
i am sorry.
only the giving needs to know that,

they wouldn't just happen to know.

ps. trauma is relative ( i wanna say that, because
i thought i was all trauma, so bad, that now
i would die if it was removed from who i am.
people like going to the opera
no matter what kind.

just a suggestion: do not be a hero. only then
does robbery become your problem.
just pretend to be a mountain. if i can do it
anyone can. i'm a

dragging my feet across the ground
because it's telling me
my history is under there

shhhh. hear it all? storytellers. okay, i'll say something now, though.
and because this is how to
say something, i'll howl about landscape
exclusively to find









dominating archetype.

afterword says "enigmatical," and something like,
"seemed interesting. not sure
what to make of it. bold or whatever."
speaks in tongues to ensure
likelihood of afterword. (speaks in tongues
is name given by spirit i stalk,
hold up, refuse to release- refuse

to let become invisible.

loses voice. speaks in tongues

all the other directions that pull, which is
every direction.
"release me" is all they're trying
to say
when they pull. not yet, i say, not until

i get to know you entirely, memorizing
everything forever.

lucky mcluckster. isle of
having the biggest dick.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

"We do not kill rape and abuse victims in this culture, but we know how to respond with such psychological abuse, coercion, victim blaming, and failure to protect the victim from further harm we can make them kill themselves.
"Ideology is not something we can escape or banish; at best, we can maintain a healthy suspicion of our own.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017


faith undergoes testing to be faith but really (the most loyal
to dogma of them all).

how much of gaia do you submit to?

i'm her bottom girl
proud to be a love object this time

"you're my everything shhh"
"i'm your everything shhh,"

that's the script in the game we play
that we keep secret.

i know the impressions i make
make me
shapes of light
weighing atop face of the earth, urging me to sex-sex-sex

the dirty gross sex that robs us, that is

that we all look for in others
in hopes of looking outside self

ultimately about producing physical babies
which teach me how to love. me seeing myself
reborn in all of societies sons
until i am reduced to

inner child

(this isn't even it speaking. this is myself as
an orphan child
that was supposed to be the fate.

(i'm not gonna deny the shadow people speak up for me.)

tv/computer screen's the torturous landowner who
still owns slaves, too reared
to get its own hands soiled.

i'm not gonna deny i'm the snakes and the hand
that threatens their habitat.
i'm not gonna deny i'm cleopatra, i, who witnesses the
world through all perceptions
would be unable to deny without knowing
i'm lying actually.

i've asked mrs. day of light, the art teacher,
to find the remote for me so i can
change the channel. she's compliant

state of inert

when it's like: impatient, shocked,
and not relating to my ignorance
'kuz it's too foreign, shadow person different
from the others

i sprawl on the couch uncertain
keep still that way

this being what i look at as my voice
yes it talks to itself so what
when translated, it
be life's worth

gauged by a thermometer, mythical, as in
hides from us, we hide from it.

i'm gonna find it. transmute it
through me if i can, and make it be
black magick because

bats are the angels today.
i see them
releasing themselves
out of reach from my hands.

what's within needs me to tell itself
to let it all be wind among winds; being a hero
is how i like fucking up best, isn't it?

reflection after reflection one seamless image
pasted together. sloppy amateur shit.
i know only the light passing through. i like
being extraordinary.

take pictures of me.

astral projection is you walking around my house
of all places. and i see you.
you want to know what it's like being other people,

but without leaving evidence.
i am nice, pretending
i don't see you seeing

okay you see these objects
now that makes them messages from suppressed-mind

i know your approach so you are no stranger.

look over there, at what
i point toward. blur your eyes now, look at it
that way.

look around it
you are doing your best, only
you've never been good at keys and this is a key

where you give your eyes to
look look no really really look

and look within
look further within
you can do more damage than that
it's only looking deep inside yourself and
you can do that, right? anyone can
do that

unintended image reflected; i name it "planted knife", weapon
again the slaughter of my romanticism

go hide it upstairs
the part of the house that's a ghetto
surely a sunflower will become of it
if you let it separate like how it wants
that's what i was pointing toward
for you to look at.

alligator challenged me to sever his head
so i can fit myself inside without getting my head bitten off.
i feel alligator warmth now, wanna try?
i've found out where red (blood) ends and green(ish skin) begins

i did not know this in myself
without doing it to estrange it from
present experience.
"it's my nature," said the scorpion, or whoever it was, in the passage
people refer to
to assert relevance of zen.

it's my nature, said me
doing the same.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

wearing a dress with short hair.

this isn't the part of me deserving of love. this is the part whose next life is gonna start in hell
'kuz it doesn't "deserve" love. this is the part without will.
the threatening. the part that's not fat stupid ugly lazy. no. i'm good looking and sexy. i prove the other parts of me bow down and i don't, so i'm queen and they're little bitches. i have nothing to prove. a good example of evil, a satanist in all ways there are 
i am the dangerous part. the part that believes in dying young. living life fast dying young. chewing
with my mouth open, eating
whatever i want and staying skinny. 
having fun making profit
off the suffering of other people. calling it art. the discriminating term the rest of me is against.
my male parts make me big and strong. you have no power over me.

time-out corner.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

"[...]This made me wonder if my postpartum thyroiditis symptoms of cloudiness and fatigue so many years ago were representative of my feeling suppressed and oppressed by my unexpressed self. Perhaps I developed exactly what it is that I needed to become more myself in this life, and that healing it rather than fighting it was the integration that rendered me one with my very personal process.
Safety looks like ease. Trust. Curiosity. And even surrender. It’s not a fight. It’s not a battle. It’s a cooperative exchange and an exploration. It’s becoming more of our whole selves because we are becoming less fragmented and self-evasive. We stop hiding parts of our personhood from our awareness. We embrace it all in order to heal.
"Perhaps what I am sensing is present in India — this deep fabric of spirituality — is actually in its death throes and I am romanticizing a tragedy. I don’t know. But what I do know is that our struggles as Westerners, particularly those struggling with poverty, are made all the more poignant because we are struggling without this fabric — flesh robots on a dead rock in the middle of nowhere. 

Monday, March 20, 2017


let me get used to all that we're taking back
from the white man who formerly robbed us. i'm at that point
where i'm separation itself, that
in-between spot. of course, there's separation

in all of us. we're not stupid here.

let me look at this as a bridge to decisions
i've dreamed of making.
everything we're doing is for potentiality, size
of the grain of sand from the never-ending story. grain of sand
from which
many wishes come true, one after the other.

i may get all self conscious around those pale impersonators
but i'll learn to adjust
to the new living- me, the pair of fangs.

if our efforts backfire,
let me shrink to naivety, how it was before, so this will not
come back to me.

i'm gonna get this to be the part of me that feels so good to
let out. it does seem muddy
in secrecy (the backbone who can suck my dick).

sacred fire gets sick of me denying its rights, so
spontaneously it possesses me
until i release it
and wildfire is the world.

i guess wildfire is the world, no matter what, though, huh.

i guess this is me counting on fire to be justified in its rage
just for now; this being
my obsessing over the fat chick with pistols and perfect tits, who i salute
when i wear all black- one observes

i'm a trick of hers that's been turned.

her will broke me. determined 'kuz she says so.
she lives in caves in afghanistan and
sacrifices animals to nihilism.
has no problem resisting persuasion
('kuz it disgusts her),
does not read, is hardly effected by current events
unless they effect her life evidently

admits porn makes girls look bad at acting, and fucking is gross
even when doing it, only eats dirt

has never spoken a word
has never looked at the stars. seems obligatory.
hates obligation (believes
in hate). sees obligation
in things other people do, as in
they do the things they do to themselves.

complacency is the white witch.

i am under her wing
when i'm with her, you are intimidated by us both
raping your dreams

the ones you block out, or interpret
to exhaustive, or declare nightmares.

when i'm ready to wake up, whenever i want,
i'll be forgiving, 'kuz i'm liberated now.
i'll say, "sorry," in the vein of
showing respect, not admitting shame. shame is dead. i killed it
myself. i had turned into death
just to kill shame how i wanna. you just look shit in the eye
when you least have it in you.

blood, muscle, brains, will, balls.

we could be heroes.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

hungry hungry cancer cells.

what gets me to confuse smudged glasses
with glasses clear as day?
the inner lifelessness that gets things seen on tv to seem flat. watching tv
as the rest of the world, except binge eating, confronts me with my disinterest, frustration, and anger toward illness.
the cancer cell is green and lurking, chameleon personality, like mine. original sin.

starting sentences coming out like i just feel like
it just seems like
just leave the shit unfinished, forcing it
will not get me to admire myself, convinced
otherwise or not.
i just feel like
being out of control seems like
cruelty; maybe it's justified, not
superficial, not a pessimistic front
to say life is unfair, if i add
that i'm sensitive about it, and maybe
the superficial part of me is allowed to exist, anyway,
who the fuck seriously wants to be god? he's a rapist.

north shore is rocky and pastel houses for people
housing souls older, further ahead in enlightenment
than that which i host. two hundred, at least.
that's me on the south shore i'm taking pictures of, dragging my allergic ass across master's carpet.
masturbating to being careless before being careless didn't suit me anymore

and i refused to fuck anymore.

this is how i want. look at me look at me little miss visceral.
this is how i fuck deep down inside my heart.