a dream of eating shit.

sticky film, a gas problem- even

a gas leak

fungus excretion

protesting any more

small hints at rejection, which mean

nothing and

are too small for interpretation, until the day

you wake up, and

molecular studies are your only friends.

no known cause for the slow thought.

swallowing semen- plainly

following narrative, is all- nothing so innocuous
as following assigned protocol

of asceticism

among asceticisms, many who literally

dig their bones

into the top of one's head- "i am

your spiritual teacher," they remind you; 

"i am god choosing you.

"i am

preparing you for your fate

of exposing as many discrepancies

of the heavens

as you can sleep on.

"yes, it's totally going to be lonely.

"

etc., it's time

to be as asleep as possible; make substance

of shadow

to become repulsed

by shadow. vision quest

for those infected by parasites, us

breeding grounds. major depressive

disorder. recurrent. ongoing.

that upward cast light

from far below

making the sky feel bad- source

of the storms-

young suns dying young

after winter passes, when it's no longer normal

to be the poster child of defeat

and all the masks that once were

have been given away

so there's no soul left, either. just so you know.

we are the same wild boar

until suddenly, we are not- spring

bursts from the ground. i watch you

make way to the

horizon

fooling around with others and shit.

i remain where i am, repeating, "life or death, isn't this?

life or death

life or death.

"

the pinnacle of poignant

as reviving imagination

past romanticism is out of the question.

i've lost patience waiting for it to be okay

to try

a seance for the living. i'm picking

my skin off again, looking

to becoming a parasite myself.

pure white.

the hypnosis starts
once a gun is fired into the open sky

doves in a panic leave their nests. the birds that are pure white.
this is a place
nobody has been to before.

a series

of rhythmic currents introduce themselves
to one another, evading me.

a seduction distances
after unexpectedly
spilling its guts

into the center of vision
where it meets god who says yes to everything.

punch between the eyes.
good old punch between
the eyes. whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

cartoon stars result
more than anything
you're not supposed to need to learn about

stuff whose knowledge you don't know what to do with except say you love life. it will count one day.

the dream i've been assigned to call
has no name
so i say anything. producing heat.
my iceberg drifts in the northern oceans with me stacey on it. here we are being together, heading toward

my only child, heaven, who is also hell,
resentful of being named,

as it was their bared hands who'd molded me from mineral
and fat of the earth. i am what i am made of. the sum of all evil is a safe guess.
to fight against it
is to lose touch.

in my lap many feathers i didn't notice had gathered.
this is a place nobody has been to before.

power politics.

"[...]once you've seen it, keeping quiet, saying nothing, becomes as political an act as speaking out. there is no innocence. either way, you're accountable.
"

predator's cowardice.

that gate
giant old gate

remains open forever. ready
for everyone. embracing.
anyone can handle these vibrations

if they'd let themselves.

crossing over
requires only little tokens-

keep up
with what's going on in the world, for
instance. don't

you care about that?

this is the father, the
great duty

i'm referring to. mr. easy-peasy.
if you can't be cavalier

than that's your ignorance
you're mishandling,

and you've got a lot of learning to do

as soon as you stop suiciding.
bad life as per
bad karma- you've offended

atman, duh. this is your fault.

typical human. selfish.
no ancestry; absence of youth

on our hands. ne'er do well. had a chance, and denied it.
shithead from hell. the ancient dead.

giant stomach and little mouth.

we must work our way up, says
king kong of the tribe. prison mentality.
all "let's sell drugs," or whatever.

worms until
we are worms lined up, in it

for dirt and the sounds we make
under the earth

until the beak meets us

and that's what you get, for turning
the grandmother
into a body of antigens. for missing the forest

for the trees.
there are no secrets left. oh,

how transparent our negligence is; does seem to be
the root of it all

wouldn't you agree
that a good example of this would be

how we give our shit away
to anyone

that doesn't resemble ourselves
but always is us exactly
at the end

of every fucking day?

yes, how endearing, our desperate plea
considering
we've robbed ourselves
for ourselves-

the intimacy is all thrown off,
pornography omnipresent;

permenantly fried
from miseducation of dimensionality

and
if there's any true bareness left
then that's a glimmer of hope
we ought to surrender

to the good people-

the owls

very old souls

threats
to that which seems evil in ourselves (though
is only naive)

that only we
reject.

and if we surrender
just this once
than the good people will forgive us

and
we can all start over again
start from scratch-

wouldn't that be nice
at least considering

how nice we'd consider ourselves
and how we'd feel all rewarded
which matters

considering how obsessed with rewards
we are?

it would be the logical thing
to do, anyway

considering
what we give is worth
how much it saves us

as we equate worth
to our being saved

for half a second.

how quiet the voice is without this crying
for help. never
have i known silence so well

now that i abuse it, so
afraid of it. practically asking for
the swoop of the owl

to ambush me.

and soul is now a feather, a keepsake
of a betrayed dream

that really ought to cross over
is the point i meant to make

not that i'm an authority
on the subject.

hear me, mistress.

i embrace
dormancy today. called by shadow

to silence. wisdom
doesn't need a voice, don't

we all know. fire

takes my eyes
to see
for its cruel longing

what it can gather. in return,

i'm given protection
of its shortcomings
when liberation

is a foreign dream, foreign
as in
never known it before; maybe

read of it in stories.

i face the west of the sky, waiting
for the sun

to drop- a weapon of wind,

like myself, though i

am one joined
with weapon

of earth- a stray web, haunted

by spider, whose love
walks its fate toward

my barely wiggling, narrow
vacancy; toward

the vibrations i send
from my limited
struggle

who calls
to entertain.
my will floats away- a ghost

to become within those foreign dreams, maybe.

be they the devils.
the poverty of the nation.
of a dying childs.
a neglected houseplant.
an animal being prepared

for sacrificing, slaughter, extinction.
be the image
i have not yet embraced feeling yet.

atman, hear this.
may my suffering be made clear.
my degenerations
have been repurposed

for the greater good;
upkeeping
the essence of fertility.
giving

as to show devotion.

stars of the dirt. stories, millions
of the trees.

at times, i did my best.
may

the next life be spared
from a black fate, from
a replication of its former.

hear me, without
flattery, and

without execution.
hear me address you

as an equal.

it is now
that the sky
is a calm place. cloud

wrapping around my body. white forest.
freedom introduces itself

at strange times.

intensity equates reference.

"But still, should you or not commit suicide? This is a good question. Why go on? And you only go on if the game is worth the gamble. Now the universe has been going on for an incredible long time. And so really, a satisfactory theory of the universe has to be one that's worth betting on. That's very, it seems to me, elementary common sense. If you make a theory of the universe which isn't worth betting on, why bother? Just commit suicide. But if you want to go on playing the game, you've got to have an optimal theory for playing the game.
"

https://erowid.org/culture/characters/watts_alan/watts_alan_article1.shtml

a real prayer.

                a real prayer goes into effect, worn out

after one use-

for it is not believed to be genuine, it is not

to be believed. i like this boy this one boy hey boy here boy here

boy sit sit sit hey boy come now boy come come i said come come

all over my lap sit boy i said sit sit sit sit boy! sit, boy! sit!

he gives me compassion sit boy sit

nobody else is as good at this sit boy sit

as boy is, he who sits on my lap

                when you are out- dancing at the club, and everyone is sober and clean

biting the fingers of one another off- briefly horrified at what you’re all doing,

you move on with ease, because a love song of quick tempo comes on

and you are on some MDMA knock-off, and other love bugs, as is.

when you get home, it is still a dream without justice.

you take your clothes off, and there is nothing there

except the shallow fear one comes across only in their sleep

which cannot be determined as such, nor can it be

determined as waking.

                the fat of a horse all over my mouth sits while wobbling. i am

mostly in bed, lacking in my own determination. i overlook my privileges-

voting is a privilege, you know.

crickets from bags one opens up for little frogs
have been opened on my torso, to take it apart,

like the picking at a scab, as my torso

is only an enormous toad that sits and says

(no, not “ribbit!”)

ding.

ding.

                “it is lunchtime.”

ding.

                “you can’t lay down there dead all day. you must arise, for it is

lunchtime in the hospital. is that not where you were put? god bless you,

oh, you in our care.

                “were you not haughty and unwilling to compromise, nor

would you be a part of the family? were you not acting out, like how

you are now?

                “this winding up here is always consequentially.

                “little eggs in your tummy-wummy, from where have they been

released?

“

from where my right leg rotted and

fell off.

                “do you know the sex yet?

                “vaginas and penises.

“

                i must say this is most unlike myself- for i do not see, only

do i imagine i see. heydingagain

ding

ding

the lunchtime ding

ding

                “you can’t just lay around all day

you have to get up

ding

                we’re motivating you

we’re building your strength up for you.”

ding

ding

                “i must say i do not eat as my mother believes such is the case

and if i can achieve such then i am relieved. i imagine i do such a thing

and notice i am being eaten by my own body

                producing insects- innumerable mothers of my

body are to feed themselves and their little ones.

“

down a cracked alleyway this began when i went hunting

for drugs- how i wanted a rock, all i wanted

was a rock or even a

whatever-the-fuck.

ding

                “we have for you a meal ding ding

ding

“we have for you a bit of lorazepam, diphenhydramine, and haloperidol all

cooked up and ready for you if you will not

join the others and eat shit for lunch.

                “we are giving you one last chance to do as we say.

“

                “i feel shamed for my fever, for my becoming a disease. is this how you treat

a woman after she has a baby and becomes that baby? do you even understand

how many babies and their mothers i carry? do you even understand- possibly, do you

even

understand

that this is the day borne of meat and today

i am

that

meat

ding

ding?

“

ding?

                “we will hold you down, and that’ll be really violating (but we’ll never know from

our end), we’ll insert this needle from an improper angle while laughing at how you’re

white meaning not of color, but this will only be

                at the end of the day

                a bit of a pinch. you will be shy about our seeing your ass

which we are to smack. ready? smack.

smack.

you will feel defeated, invalidated, and abused.

smack (ding!)

smack

smack

smack

are you licking your fingers to stop the anthills from growing

to hide the queens, warring

with nobody?

we are licking our fingers for we can report

that we have done our jobs somehow

which we are paid for with money. oh my god yes money day!

(at the end of the day, a bit of a pinch at most.

)

                these puddles all around me? they became

after the last rain storm maelstrom shit storm. they are

excellent grounds for mosquitoes to breed. do not think

that i do not see these puddles! do not think i will not suffer

and you will not laugh

at my suffering!

the primordial mind faces poverty after being bitten by mosquitoes

and facing allergic reactions

and falls to sleep to where it left off last.

(drift off to ding smack ding ding drift to the sleep. ding smack

drift drift.

)

                incest happens. (the girl said again.) incest will happen sometimes.

incest never happened though i do not know. (the girl laughed nervously.)

though, there is nothing wrong with that.

incest happens sometimes. we need to pass the law that says

there is nothing wrong with that.

                i am not impatient to find out whether incest happens

or not

and whether or not

either are okay to happen.

                (a lascivious mouth on a peanut-dick cries because it is re-thinking

its plans to revenge against the father of the peanut-dick.) i am a little girl,

of course i know magic. my pee is golden, something

to drink

to live forever

the warmth will grant you the bravery to

live forever

by swallowing the rest of humanity. not living is that which constitutes an impoverished act.

                (i live

as i imagine

there’s no escape. i neglect to see- seeing in a

direction unwanted, anyway.

i pretend i know how to see.

oh! my dear therapy, you know exactly how to leave me

wandering. my troubles are blue, indeed!

ding again

men come in

better hide again because ding again, smack again

ding ding on the shithole trolley smack

ding hide again

hide again

                my alligator eyes are pushed downward, underwater

sucked by mosquitoes and their diseases. i find myself lost in the woods searching for the world of

the medicine man. (i’m looking at your demons

i’m licking at your semen

i will become a demon

to lap at your semen- there’s something about myself

that i have to change.) this part of the day is my favorite- when the sun is being pushed

down on and all that matters is i find a soothing place

to see myself in. “save my light shedding as i pray,” aloud i announce

in case the medicine man or his people hear me, in case

they’ve been following me this whole time.

(a real prayer for the force behind it pushes my head underwater

for the sake of the medicine man.

                there’s a chance tomorrow will be better in fact i choose to believe tomorrow will be better though only the moment exists i am the moment and i fear myself unknowing how to change my relation to fear to find the guidance i starve for these

boo-boos to feel better. boo-boos

get better with medicinals and bandages- and, of course,

time.

)

                this is the part of the day when i acknowledge my blind mind

taking up all of my life.

it doesn’t matter.

it would be too much if it mattered.

ding.

DEAD BOY.

                dead boy die in dead

bathroom stall. dead boy swirlie-dive.

dead boy die.

dead boy;

dead boy.

i got dead boy’s head. it died.

                dead boy, what is it that makes

life “worth”?

                what is it that makes life “worth”

living?

                the eating of one’s own decapitated head is a

horse, of course. i am hurt not

by my beheading

though it solve no injustice which i aimed to silence.

                eating.

                eating always goes back to the flesh

which is being eaten right now.

ding

                desecration is a star appearing to itself, violence

emerges until our changes are given light

which we fear- though, fear

teaches to either act with or react against violence.

until then i starve.

                dead boy is a dead boy died. dead boy dead boy- refusal

to fly. dead boy make life “worth” life. (only dead boy

can afford it, he been around since the beginning of

time.

)

                dead boy who? dead boy die, is who. dead boy

dead boy dead object of formal redemption.

into your bowels i examined

my distinct focus was brave

as your face fell apart from the

wounds caused by the locusts

and we all went inside because

we all wanted to see how dark

and stinky it was in there.

                dead boy come back and molest me again. (i was never molested

i just get a kick out of it

i’m just exaggerating

to have something to talk about at parties)

                then what’s this? (don’t show me.)

                then what’s this? (well, it is only my vagina.)

                i said, what’s this?

                i said

                i

                said i said i said DING i said DING i said come on get up

it’s time to play ding! ding! ding! ding!

ding!

                a great period of depression, i think, has weighed down upon

my womb, my heart, my mind; i have become a stone

waking up, facing breathing. it is as superficial as all

the fluff one believes ought [to] be exiled, extinguished.

                and agent of stimulation? everyone has seen the worst at least

once (a perceived discontinuity)- violence is everywhere

and we’ve grown indifferent. do you do the breeding of brutalizing

experience? agent, (DISCONTINUITY IS PERCEPTION OF SPACE BETWEEN

INTERRELATINGS) one can express uncertainty among others who do not

express believings of utopian fascinations.

                none of us are entertained, solely nervous, and abiding.

                anything

                is experiential.

ding.

                “and we see that you have not yet swallowed your food, your tongue

yet

                have you?

                shoot your ass up with the same needle from last time.

                for we are not yet high on power, not

as high as we’d like. not like how it was last time so

we’re going to try to aim higher.

                the used needle up your ass tastes better than the shit

which you speak and that which is suppressed in the speaking

of others

                come on baby. this party is one during which

we masticate.

everyone has swallowed their tongues. they’ve nothing left in their

mouths but rotting teeth.

if you don’t take it up the ass, you will see their eyes

screaming ‘help me’ for the rest

of your shitty life.

have you not ever violated your own code of principality?

“

(SPIT IT OUT

SPIT IT

OUT

SPIT IT OUT

SPIT

IT OUT SPIT IT OUT SPIT OUT IT OUTSPIT IT SPIT OUTSITPITDITSPIT

)

“you cannot glorify your principals, you say.” (I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO MY TONGUE TO MY SPIT TO MY TEETH TO MY STINKY FEET KISS MY STINKY FEET 8948248427484700010101001010101010010101001010100100100101010101011010100101001010

THESE THINGS ARE MINE. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. all else

may dull

for all i care

under my great height.

                it is from now on that i enter the ruins i floated into throughout a series of dreams now released to history. from now on, i talk only to myself, out of my throat. this is how one becomes a cause within equality, as frequently reminded, as all else.)

“you are not ready. you must change. reform, cadaver. reform.

“

                i have a secret. get inside. i’d like to embrace all of your dreams

as children of mine. i must force, you understand. force myself upon your dreams,

i must, you understand. give to me. give.

                give to me. sleep with me. open to me. never learn to love. drain

your life. force. give. this is the potentiating

                of the hot sex on a hot bed that we burn on and go on to continue

life as burn victims fucking pushing marriage under the eyes of

                the law

                on one another

                but never getting quite so far.

                                (

                there’s so much one can do.

                you are tired

                and you are free. stop listening to everyone ever.

)

the night sea, home of the dead.

RIGHTS OF THE SACRIFICIALS.

LEATHERFACE'S DINNER.

the homeless man is homeless because he will not accept reality- though walking around, though breathing, he is dead. he is greedy and must be rubbed out.
his touch is unwanted. his bed sheets have been properly folded and burned. if this did not seem barbaric, the law enforcement of limited knowledge concerning their assigned guns they carry (which they hide behind, as well as a makeshift layer of skin collected from those they've shot) shoot the homeless man. they sever his limbs and throw them around. the law enforcement officers do not understand these acts against soothing humanity are sacrifice of their own selves, and their longings that stay put- which go ignored (these longings can be relied on to never leave them).
their existential confusions as to determining what power truly is guide them into seeking solutions from their immoderate use of their guns (this is called permissible violence). the rush of shooting their guns is reassuring enough that they are lead to believe it is the self which casts power. it is the self which pulls the trigger of guns. it is the self which makes things happen without being chased by consequences- so the law enforcement officers have learned, anyway. wouldn't you say that's awfully powerful?

power moves with force, this is so. power also forces its way into all the rooms the homeless man was cast from to deliver a frequency individual only to his life-force that once was.
there is a white pool of light. when one is exposed to this, this is when they've accepted reality. accepting reality is power. there is equanimity; stasis- the balance one carries as one looks without being overpowered by the looking. between the delicate lines power's stillness remains undemanding of being found.

WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT (CALL NOW).

i am burdened with frustration. i was not sure whether or not the homeless man was homeless or not due to developmental conditioning, i'm sure. i gave him a dollar or whatever amount of dollar bills i had. however, i'm more concerned about my own disarming violence i face.

even in my confused mind- this said confusion i now believe is all that constitutes the pain of so-called "mental illness" before the oncoming upheaval of cultural abuse (being measured alongside the standardized demands others achieve- being held back by barriers, drowning below them), i have been humbled with the capability of telling myself i am one of the more "intelligent" (genius restricted to the sense of self) people i've known in my life. i spend my life waiting for the ideas i experience, worshiping them as if saints. they seem to originate from change, which they continue to be of. change is god. god is the universe.

i wanted to be a marine. there was an examination process. the marks on my arms, i was told in my mind, indicated something disturbing within the [person or persons] sizing them up. they only saw themselves, and they saw my scarring. others grips are not strong of understanding. like the homeless man, my limbs, too, were dismembered, slowly- by barbed wires then, they were sold to so-called non-profit organizations representing causal promotion benefiting profit for those in charge of organizations in (accusational) question.

i'm sorry, it's just i have a hard time believing anything that sells itself without putting forth evidence as evidence is the foundation of trust. nobody knows i'm actually a cop, so i know things about the reality of evidence.

my limbs with their marks were sold to commercial profiteers. my limbs were to be photographed on a block of concrete. this direction is believed to shock people into reacting with subservience immediately- give money, limbs, whatever- so long as one professes their giving up. funds accumulate (DUST ACCUMULATES. DUST ACCUMULATES.) from this to go forth into a more ambitious project- a commercial production benefiting the causal disgrace of global sufferings. the goal of this project, it is hoped, is for the sake of keeping up with the hierarchy, to continue soaking in shit, and immortalize (despite this being based on impossibility and following examples set to be bought), the so-convinced "shocking" image of my limbs are to be presented again in this project.

in a commercial much akin to the wounded warrior project, in my quadriplegic state i am shown in a wheelchair with duct tape tightly binded across my mouth. two others in similar states as mine and myself as spun around in our apparent helplessnesses, tortured by marketers of "discreet" terrorisms, laughing, slapping our faces, feeding us psychotropic medications guaranteed to trigger the iatrogenic state of slowed metabolism, eventual obesity. we have been mistaken as products of violence witnessed by our torturers- our "guards"- while playing with toys (either earlier that day or during their formative states, when they were still blatant victims).

or perhaps everything happens for a reason,

human interaction begins to feel like the silence of walls, pretending one another are not present. (at least those caught in this disconnect, this antisocial behavior will not kill one another). when i fuck, i am a fetish, because i am looked at as a limbless woman. i am my passions, my desires- and my dedications to my contradictions- and these alone.

WILL: GIVE MY HONESTY DECIDEDLY TO REALITY.

so, hell opposes reality (utopia), and this is why i demand the "sentiment" above of the reader in question.

a group of family members of proclaimed "mentally ill" people gather- not to speak to the best of their abilities about what they can do to help, but to scream about the crises that their children are in psychiatric facilities. you motherfuckers can all suck it. the name of the group is the acronym NAMI (national alliance of the mentally ill. this is perceived as oxymoronic, as the words "mentally ill" stigmatize and suppress the populace NAMI expounds in its sheepish martyrdom).

A FAIRY TALE: HEAR ME.

the son of a decent, well-meaning father continuously cries for help through the extended languages of drugs, drug overdoses, other traces of bodily harm, harm to others, and other criminal activity, such as frequent, grandiose shoplifting rituals (although crime would not exist without regulations, as the facade of universal "morals" would no longer need to be rebelled against in our desperate codes). the understandably desperate father of this also desperate young man has mentioned these ongoing disruptions of his son's, and, to an extent, his less ostensible vulnerabilities, such as problems with taking measures to attempt to control a distorted body image and a diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder (and the list, as it goes, continues expanding).

we know nothing of the father, aside from his valid outpouring of highly pitched emotions. he has finally permitted his self to feel.

it is certainly understandable this father traverses his own personal hell, paralleling that of his sons. however, it will be addressed that the father stigmatizes his son. in the father's panic and misunderstanding of the realities of both that of his sons as well as his own, he has been guided to believe exploitation of his son- as though a possession- is how one learns to "advocate" masterfully.

since the first noticeable scintilla of extension of language, learned in silence (which, in modern day english, translates to "hear me"), nobody in the family has looked at the problems of anyone (including those of their own) with the exception of this son, who one would expect to degenerate. they do not need to look at anything except the problems of the son. it is "convenient" to do so. convenience is not necessarily expansive of the mind nor is it helpful to the cause of many people, but that's not how it's sold to our susceptible minds. (as opposed to encouragement to innovate, one is encouraged to observe the innovations of others.)

the gifts, talents, beauty, intelligence, longings, and everything except the son's personal hell (and the damages of such) go overlooked. they waste away. unwittingly, the son goes on to host the responsibility of a new role to attend to- he is a scapegoat, blamed for his personal hell as opposed to his indefinable relationship with his responsibilities with his said gifts, talents, beauty, intelligence, longings, and everything except his personal hell (and the damages of such). the identified ill loses his connections with such as he cuts his heart out in his guilt, which lasts for an indeterminate amount of time (time is also a fallacy i trouble myself obeying).

everything shrivels but his role, including his language. he smells. we hope he doesn't suicide. 

NAMI loves him.

your bug fat cock.

"selling my used panties - w4m

im a thin and young female with a great smelling pussy. I am looking to sell some of my favorite used panties for $40 each. you can buy as many as you want and i don't send any pics of my face, however with each purchase i will send you a picture of my ass in the underwear and also a video of me masterbating to a picture of your bug fat cock, or just masterbating thinking of you. We can have phone sex for 10 minutes then ill masterbate while on the phone witch you and send you a video. after that you give me an address and leave the $40 in the mailbox and ill drop my panties in the mailbox! must get paid first before phone sex.

• do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers"