I haven't shared with you
any of the good
that has happened.
I have only kept the moving
on my tongue.
Yes, cigarettes are oral stimulation.
Yes, I put horns on my head for a reason this season.
And, such.
I'll keep my brush
with luck still a secret for now.
I hope I still keep writing
once I'm happy this time.
Conversation
It's due. This is my rejuvenation period. This is my Year 9.
And these are the Kings of Era, the words, the stirrings.
Their provokings are reckless, are louder than usual,
though not any more significant.
The last pattern that saw me go frenzy
was the desert.
Mmmm, aye.
A grand sum.
I'm on the plateau of feeling completely uprooted. I just moved away
from MY world that was home. I was moved moved moved there and
moved outta there to see my manifestation manifested onto She.
I can't pinpoint the sensation of jealousy. I can't identify it even
when I am standing next to Beauty and invisible.
I'd always rather be me.
Me? I'm easily embarrassed but never ashamed.
I'm hyper-aware to the subtleties but can't read the whole picture.
And currently, hypo-inflated off all the rotten details.
So then, these are the kinks. This is what the protocol is during
these mighty waves of change and of the pull of life and of life itself
and of work and play and probably lust, and probably always seeming crazy-
now that I am lying calmly in recline, observing my behaviors of the day.
I certainly do not consider beforehand or censor many of the things
that exit my person. I follow my fool through to the end. I am
loyal to my fool most of all. I laugh about that cockney fuck often.
I laugh about everybody's bad habits, and how they all want the crown
for my novice of such things. For my novice in the church of waste.
I laugh about the things I'll real-eyes soon.
Soon is a flirt with red eyes.
Fuck the future, and fuck the past though I live for it.
I can live for something I fuck.
And I fall into place. To be in place, you mustn't be contemplating it.
And I adore the thump the psyche makes when it hits the floor of this beast.
And I love the creative bullshit that gargles upward and foams at the lipstick.
And I love the cramps in my gut when I'm more womanly than you know.
That sensation in the chest when you've clawed your own flesh off of the bones.
This is the self seeking escapism thriving off the mountain I just fell off of.
I just... threw myself
off of.
AND,
this whole MOVE. (I fucking love that word)
AND,
this whole season!
So then, these are the crunches, the underground tremors that
shake so hard the body looses orbit, the body shaken between the
inner and the outer and itself inflicts the collapse of a pathetic ending
to a charming feeling.
I don't care why I'm scratching, I don't care why or who is itching.
It's BECAUSE. It's THAT I AM.
The part of my being without sympathy, without compassion even
and probably mostly with myself, is laughing. Is so happy: She's
starting to tare! This is going to be so spiritually provoking when
it's time to detox. When it's time to begin observing whatever it is.
That part of my being does this to my whole being. Uses her
emotional livelihood and emotional temperance and emotional
intelligence and emotional chaos just for the currency of her pleasure:
Words.
I believe words move me the most though I feel and though I paint
because language shouldn't be this powerful. Language shouldn't
be capable of leading one to believe an expression. It's our invention.
Some formula that correlates enough versions of the spectrum of
consciousness to in order to assign meanings to concept and form.
Some ancient idea that got humped out and moaned out and ended up
exterminating psychic thought for the tyranny of collection.
The tyranny of desire.
The tyranny of loss.
The tyranny of the millions and millions and million more things
I cannot conceive to you because I am not permitted.
Are you sure language wasn't a curse?
It rejects 99% dark matter of thought.
All that.
And,
It's gorgeous.
It's gorgeous when it moves you.
It's gorgeous when it's actually painting a picture, or translating
an authentic thought or feeling or fucked up sadistic impulse
that you know you have in there.
I know I have in here.
I have climbed this mountain for this whole mighty era and
I have let the world cast spells on me and I have believed
my every insecurity and I have hated the intensity of the spells
and I have hated that they have only made me stronger so that
the next curse or spell or joke has to be tougher and brighter
So I can light up again.
So I can loose control again.
So I can write down shit and call it poetry.
Drinking with promises but not drinking in promise
I can only hold what I cannot speak
Listen,
there are so many of you in this microscopic world.
She, the first one. Will always out-shine all of you
by virtue, only, of being the first.
And he, and he, and he.
And that one who went crazy.
And my boys, my sons,
I remember when I've met you the first time.
I remember anybody I've held in my arms
as they slept.
My sons who are sleeping with the sun now,
I see your faces with immaculate detail.
And he, my first sea
who fucked me again the night I came home
bruised and beat, who I let fuck me again though
I knew he was a habitual liar and later hearing
from the faery that this hurt her to anger
(these were different types of firsts)
And then, a Real sea,
the sea I began to like and now love
only after the fucking.
Who has never hurt me romantically
though he does not believe me.
Who has hurt me repeatedly
with his tales of the dead
(and that time he fucked my sister, but that was not romantic)
And,
A secret sea.
A secret because he was good to me.
And, a gigantic unattainable fucking ocean
who was from my ultimate past, who stayed
with god and told me if I had stayed, too,
I'd be happy. And I'd be his wife.
(I wept because I've become too complicated to go back)
And,
the unbelievable one,
who I do not share with those
who have not seen me live it.
And then... I forget.
After that I forget.
It was a short climb up from the plummit,
but high enough to throw myself back down
and break just enough to die there for days.
I want to die for days.
The immortal who was damned to have his intestines
pulled and ripped and eaten of him by vultures
never dead but always dying.
The difference is, I would die at the end.
Okay,
I've made it to the morning but it's still night,
It's still LIVID, it's still FAMINE
It's still haunting
in the exact
same
patterns.
IN THE EXACT SAME PATTERNS.
There's a fourth this time, at least,
and the cards are chariot.
I've tested my luck,
and I haven't even began to test my luck yet.
It isn't fluffy.
It isn't fuzzy.
That's you on the inside.
That's you when you can't sleep and
it's already been days.
That's you after a million years of solitude
(that's me too)
Though,
strangers have been particularly fascinating these days; some,
even, who I may know by name but who are still authentically strange.
A stranger, we've exchanged one interaction:
I suggested he read me a piece of original prose,
and I got an autobiographical porno.
I read him a burst of a poem on sex, and then said
I had to get off the phone to smoke a cigarette.
I wondered if it felt like I took something from him.
(Sometimes I am the stranger who gets taken)
It isn't fluffy. It isn't fuzzy.
That's only you on the inside.
Listen,
there are so many of you in this microscopic world.
She, the first one. Will always out-shine all of you
by virtue, only, of being the first.
And he, and he, and he.
And that one who went crazy.
And my boys, my sons,
I remember when I've met you the first time.
I remember anybody I've held in my arms
as they slept.
My sons who are sleeping with the sun now,
I see your faces with immaculate detail.
And he, my first sea
who fucked me again the night I came home
bruised and beat, who I let fuck me again though
I knew he was a habitual liar and later hearing
from the faery that this hurt her to anger
(these were different types of firsts)
And then, a Real sea,
the sea I began to like and now love
only after the fucking.
Who has never hurt me romantically
though he does not believe me.
Who has hurt me repeatedly
with his tales of the dead
(and that time he fucked my sister, but that was not romantic)
And,
A secret sea.
A secret because he was good to me.
And, a gigantic unattainable fucking ocean
who was from my ultimate past, who stayed
with god and told me if I had stayed, too,
I'd be happy. And I'd be his wife.
(I wept because I've become too complicated to go back)
And,
the unbelievable one,
who I do not share with those
who have not seen me live it.
And then... I forget.
After that I forget.
It was a short climb up from the plummit,
but high enough to throw myself back down
and break just enough to die there for days.
I want to die for days.
The immortal who was damned to have his intestines
pulled and ripped and eaten of him by vultures
never dead but always dying.
The difference is, I would die at the end.
Okay,
I've made it to the morning but it's still night,
It's still LIVID, it's still FAMINE
It's still haunting
in the exact
same
patterns.
IN THE EXACT SAME PATTERNS.
There's a fourth this time, at least,
and the cards are chariot.
I've tested my luck,
and I haven't even began to test my luck yet.
It isn't fluffy.
It isn't fuzzy.
That's you on the inside.
That's you when you can't sleep and
it's already been days.
That's you after a million years of solitude
(that's me too)
Though,
strangers have been particularly fascinating these days; some,
even, who I may know by name but who are still authentically strange.
A stranger, we've exchanged one interaction:
I suggested he read me a piece of original prose,
and I got an autobiographical porno.
I read him a burst of a poem on sex, and then said
I had to get off the phone to smoke a cigarette.
I wondered if it felt like I took something from him.
(Sometimes I am the stranger who gets taken)
It isn't fluffy. It isn't fuzzy.
That's only you on the inside.
1 new notification
this is the way I know how to say it
this is the mind mourning the birth of self
but this is not impression, this isn't anything
I want to hold up to you in sex.
I'm only trying to realize the carnage
of my psyche along the broken streets of me inside.
in the dreams I don't remember I have you.
I've been uprooted. I know now the feeling of leaving home.
I know now I do have to search for it in the soul.
Which leaves me sitting in cafe's.
this is the mind mourning the birth of self
but this is not impression, this isn't anything
I want to hold up to you in sex.
I'm only trying to realize the carnage
of my psyche along the broken streets of me inside.
in the dreams I don't remember I have you.
I've been uprooted. I know now the feeling of leaving home.
I know now I do have to search for it in the soul.
Which leaves me sitting in cafe's.
When an old habit becomes a new drug...
What can I do now, telling?
What is the truth of the unkind?
How has the ground shifted from my feet
to my pulse? I'm high on this anxious curve-
the curve of my third breast, intuitive for lovers.
The curve of my taint, and the taint of my skeleton.
When she's all I have left I will carve into her skull.
And as it burns to ash I will follow her in the wind and
find different seas to put her in and feel different touches
as to who has been the cause this time. Go to a place unseen.
There is one beauty in being lonely, untraveled.
In that you may still get to go for the first time and
see and feel and touch for the first time, and take all
the old growth lingering there for the first time and be
shaped by it, finally, by all the stories of your expectations
and having your colour change and getting history from the
beverages of destination and taking in the new nectar and
being like a child, authentically.
When I was a child I wanted to grow up
as quickly as was possible and I wanted to
feel what genitalia felt like inside and out and
I wanted to know the bottom of the bottle and
every place that wasn't home inside.
And now I realize I miss my child.
The distance is like death.
A timely sorrow.
Keeping your doors closed, but unlocked.
And with this currency of Time
at the bedside,
Dreamer,
What's is like to be a child now?
What is the truth of the unkind?
How has the ground shifted from my feet
to my pulse? I'm high on this anxious curve-
the curve of my third breast, intuitive for lovers.
The curve of my taint, and the taint of my skeleton.
When she's all I have left I will carve into her skull.
And as it burns to ash I will follow her in the wind and
find different seas to put her in and feel different touches
as to who has been the cause this time. Go to a place unseen.
There is one beauty in being lonely, untraveled.
In that you may still get to go for the first time and
see and feel and touch for the first time, and take all
the old growth lingering there for the first time and be
shaped by it, finally, by all the stories of your expectations
and having your colour change and getting history from the
beverages of destination and taking in the new nectar and
being like a child, authentically.
When I was a child I wanted to grow up
as quickly as was possible and I wanted to
feel what genitalia felt like inside and out and
I wanted to know the bottom of the bottle and
every place that wasn't home inside.
And now I realize I miss my child.
The distance is like death.
A timely sorrow.
Keeping your doors closed, but unlocked.
And with this currency of Time
at the bedside,
Dreamer,
What's is like to be a child now?
I wanted the words a thought ago,
I wanted to skin myself and put
your poetry between my bones and my flesh
and I wanted them to settle in there,
burning into my soul.
I wanted the movement.
I wanted to wake up different every time
trying to live forever in every life.
I wanted the bandage to stay so my body
swells and rots underneath it,
turning indigo and the stars of night
are just shots of pain.
I wanted to be called a savage.
I wanted to feel blind in front of a face of beauty.
I wanted your compassion to be unreal.
I wanted it to just be passion.
I wanted to feel your face again. To be
in front of you with my eyes sewn shut,
forcing my fingertips gently along your contours.
And, slipping.
I want to feel your face again.
I know,
I have different voices of honesty.
I wanted to skin myself and put
your poetry between my bones and my flesh
and I wanted them to settle in there,
burning into my soul.
I wanted the movement.
I wanted to wake up different every time
trying to live forever in every life.
I wanted the bandage to stay so my body
swells and rots underneath it,
turning indigo and the stars of night
are just shots of pain.
I wanted to be called a savage.
I wanted to feel blind in front of a face of beauty.
I wanted your compassion to be unreal.
I wanted it to just be passion.
I wanted to feel your face again. To be
in front of you with my eyes sewn shut,
forcing my fingertips gently along your contours.
And, slipping.
I want to feel your face again.
I know,
I have different voices of honesty.
I am obedient, Feybell
How far do you want to take this? I don't know the best way to send this to you, but I want an open source. You figure the rest out. Much love.
Quote from The Favorite Game
"...He noticed she tried to relax her body, to make herself like a child hearing a favorite story. But her hands tightened on the carved wooden arms and for a hundredth of a second she was suffering in an electric chair. Then she sank back again and tried to annihilate herself in the melody.
Some women possess their beauty as they do a custom sportscar or thoroughbred horse. They drive it hard to every appointment and grant interviews from the saddle. The lucky ones have small accidents and learn to walk on the street, because nobody wants to listen to an arrogant old lady. Some women wear moss over their beauty and occasionally something rips it away - a lover, a pregnancy, maybe a death - and an incredible smile shows through, deep happy eyes, perfect skin, but this is temporary and soon the moss re-forms. Some women study and counterfeit beauty. Industries have been established to serve these women, and men are conditioned to favor them. Some women inherit beauty as a family feature, and learn to value it slowly, as the scion of a great family becomes proud of an unusual chin because so many distinguished men bore it. And some women, women like shell, create it as they go along, changing not so much their faces as the air around them. They break down old rules of light and cannot be interpreted or compared. They make every room original.
He believed she was in some kind of pain, or rather, defeat. The loveliness she composed seemed to rebel and escape her, as sometimes a poem under the pen becomes wild and uncontrollable..."
Endorphines, hello.
In the broken moment of this non-felt non-reality
I reach to my telepathic and maniac method.
I only want to channel the hot, the telling. I only
want to get the words that MOVE me and only me
because I am everything that's fucked about this place.
This whole place.
I can dream in my darkside and talk with
that other voice. To them, anyway.
I can light up whatever thing that pleases me
and still be human.
I can give a fuck.
But that may be my problem.
I wear "slippers" in the house but they're shoes.
I've lost my clothes amongst my other clothes
because there's so much black.
I test fear when I linger in the mirror.
But the doorbell works. As of today.
Memories are coming and going.
If it were night, I'd be in the wrong.
But I'm only sitting in shadows.
I'm only keeping warm between the blanket
and the cold earth.
I'm not warm.
I let my blood veins sprout with leaves as if
the circling system were a vine.
I let my lymph... flower.
This is all an idea; that's the painful part.
Idea's that stay idea's are curses.
A halo is a reversed crown.
And people become assholes because they're addicted to
HUMANITY.
I reach to my telepathic and maniac method.
I only want to channel the hot, the telling. I only
want to get the words that MOVE me and only me
because I am everything that's fucked about this place.
This whole place.
I can dream in my darkside and talk with
that other voice. To them, anyway.
I can light up whatever thing that pleases me
and still be human.
I can give a fuck.
But that may be my problem.
I wear "slippers" in the house but they're shoes.
I've lost my clothes amongst my other clothes
because there's so much black.
I test fear when I linger in the mirror.
But the doorbell works. As of today.
Memories are coming and going.
If it were night, I'd be in the wrong.
But I'm only sitting in shadows.
I'm only keeping warm between the blanket
and the cold earth.
I'm not warm.
I let my blood veins sprout with leaves as if
the circling system were a vine.
I let my lymph... flower.
This is all an idea; that's the painful part.
Idea's that stay idea's are curses.
A halo is a reversed crown.
And people become assholes because they're addicted to
HUMANITY.
ghosts
are destructive by virtue of being ghosts
beings of pseudo matter
beings of repulsive memory sewn up
into some hipster idiom of broken, alas.
In this town I am a ghost
I create fable behind people's lives
I behave without measure at their
absent observation
I leave hidden gifts
and take pleasure in it
but I am destructive
because I am a ghost.
because of haunted memory still grasping
because I hear my first love still gasping
I am a ghost because there is a tribe of ghosts
together the echo may be melody
together the dumbfuck may be endearing
sharing sadness from the cup of water.
I remain intangible because a story
is deeper than a story teller.
because if my story changed
my voice would change
and I've gotten used to it.
I remain intangible because if I am a ghost,
destructive by nature,
I will never be able to know if it was really all
just my fault.
Or,
is that
you
this time?
beings of pseudo matter
beings of repulsive memory sewn up
into some hipster idiom of broken, alas.
In this town I am a ghost
I create fable behind people's lives
I behave without measure at their
absent observation
I leave hidden gifts
and take pleasure in it
but I am destructive
because I am a ghost.
because of haunted memory still grasping
because I hear my first love still gasping
I am a ghost because there is a tribe of ghosts
together the echo may be melody
together the dumbfuck may be endearing
sharing sadness from the cup of water.
I remain intangible because a story
is deeper than a story teller.
because if my story changed
my voice would change
and I've gotten used to it.
I remain intangible because if I am a ghost,
destructive by nature,
I will never be able to know if it was really all
just my fault.
Or,
is that
you
this time?
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