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.
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?
Cos you went into the water, you got into the water
I SIT SO REMOVED FROM MY BEHAVIOR
MY POOR IMPULSE CONTROL
MY POOR IMPULSE CONTROL
MY POOR IMPULSE CONTROL
I HAVE PAINTED PICTURE DARK; TWISTED
THE ISLAND/CLOUD/SUPERPOSITION
FUCKING TWISTED
BECAUSE I HAVE SAT HERE SO FAR REMOVED
clicking back into a sense of SHAME
preceded by ego-tripping shamelessness
and
I am loving every moment of this self sabotage
this emotional torture of ME
sitting in HINDSIGHT
3.3.2012
Twenty Four.
Twenty four is the year of my death. I don't know how I'll die in this life, but something will. A part of me. My mind, my heart, my perception?
Twenty four is the most important. It always has been, I can't remember not having this number in my head. Oh my god, I'm 24.
01.20.2012
and I do speak of the extroverted symphony
that plays ongoing
OUTHERE
in the world.
I do believe space
adapts to our mental being
adapts well
to our being
mental.
fighting the direction in motion
blows flows though my veins
fighting every idea of brave
that is my stay in this paralysis
(every brother being fighting to fight
to remain wicked to fight every
prayer of soul that we may stay
on earth that we may linger
in the fields of glory that we may
notion to humanity whole of
this most primitive spiritual thing.)
I hear voices of old in
the other room
but I wonder,
are they soft voices against
thin walls
or are they hard voices booming against
a field of space?
The tide of breath
I feel my senses I feel blood flowing out of me intimately I feel
water soaking into my bones and protecting them from wind
I feel energy everywhere and I'm sorry that I do.
I will always seek out wealth and not riches.
It's okay that I need my blue generation for place.
It's okay that I searched for tribe and found my skin colourful
to be relative to all.
I remember the Universe. I remember giving it my soul
and accidentally finding everything I ever wanted.
It's okay if my pocket goes hungry if my mouth does not.
It's okay if my mouth goes hungry if my heart does not.
I feel electricity alive in my body
especially when I'm calm.
water soaking into my bones and protecting them from wind
I feel energy everywhere and I'm sorry that I do.
I will always seek out wealth and not riches.
It's okay that I need my blue generation for place.
It's okay that I searched for tribe and found my skin colourful
to be relative to all.
I remember the Universe. I remember giving it my soul
and accidentally finding everything I ever wanted.
It's okay if my pocket goes hungry if my mouth does not.
It's okay if my mouth goes hungry if my heart does not.
I feel electricity alive in my body
especially when I'm calm.
01.01.2012
Everything is fine with me it's
the year of my murder-
it's the year of my death
by water
by submitting
to the depth
it's the year of my depth.
Remember our bodies clashing
Remember our families mating
Remember how I looked
when I
floated to the top
bloated, but still pink
still full of fertility
in the year of my death.
And this,
twenty fourth year of 3
one hundreds and a couple of moons
I find myself symbolic.
This year I become Mother
but not of my womb.
This death I give myself
to be carefilled and ripe
to every _ _ _ _ _ dying.
the year of my murder-
it's the year of my death
by water
by submitting
to the depth
it's the year of my depth.
Remember our bodies clashing
Remember our families mating
Remember how I looked
when I
floated to the top
bloated, but still pink
still full of fertility
in the year of my death.
And this,
twenty fourth year of 3
one hundreds and a couple of moons
I find myself symbolic.
This year I become Mother
but not of my womb.
This death I give myself
to be carefilled and ripe
to every _ _ _ _ _ dying.
I know you
devised a plan in nature
devised a plan
devised a plan to seek out
your revenge
you thought you'd put me
in the corner
you thought you'd put
a massacre frame around my
energy desperately always
coming out
you thought you'd put me
back into place. you thought you'd see
me tremble like in your fantasies.
you just wanted
your fantasy
to be real.
you thought you'd stick me,
sort to speak,
but my good attitude about it
drew you back out.
my good attitude about knowing my death
was okay with me.
i was going to meet you.
you thought you'd put me in the corner.
you thought you had done so,
already. you saw your lover
next to you in bed.
alright. do you fucking
understand?
i knew you
devised a plan in apology unreal
apology to get me in that corner
i knew you
from the first fucking second
you opened your round face
observing delicately
i had the same.
fuck you. i knew it.
i had only kindness for you.
i only still have kindness for you yet
your lover won't think of you in kindness for seconds still
for seconds blue for seconds
at a fucking drag.
your lover will have to return.
your lover will have to beg.
your lover will have to know
he's a piece of shit.
i don't care if you die together.
i don't care if you die together.
listen,
i don't care if you die together.
your lover sticks you
to stick himself.
fuck you.
devised a plan
devised a plan to seek out
your revenge
you thought you'd put me
in the corner
you thought you'd put
a massacre frame around my
energy desperately always
coming out
you thought you'd put me
back into place. you thought you'd see
me tremble like in your fantasies.
you just wanted
your fantasy
to be real.
you thought you'd stick me,
sort to speak,
but my good attitude about it
drew you back out.
my good attitude about knowing my death
was okay with me.
i was going to meet you.
you thought you'd put me in the corner.
you thought you had done so,
already. you saw your lover
next to you in bed.
alright. do you fucking
understand?
i knew you
devised a plan in apology unreal
apology to get me in that corner
i knew you
from the first fucking second
you opened your round face
observing delicately
i had the same.
fuck you. i knew it.
i had only kindness for you.
i only still have kindness for you yet
your lover won't think of you in kindness for seconds still
for seconds blue for seconds
at a fucking drag.
your lover will have to return.
your lover will have to beg.
your lover will have to know
he's a piece of shit.
i don't care if you die together.
i don't care if you die together.
listen,
i don't care if you die together.
your lover sticks you
to stick himself.
fuck you.
Obviously,
I'm wild about every idea ideal living
and hidden prophet
every forfeit every whack of honor
every clown hung on the sky
every joker phanting fucker
every Woman.
/apparently/ it's a big deal.
I'll skip ion in the swim
satisfying micro-sorry
socialbilly and tolerant of your
governmental highs, of your pocket
swelling
in the macrogripe of everywhere
purgatory and pregnant
of the trousers
covering your hole
tolerant of the fucking crazies
the glitter horrors the
real stories the
outstanding quantic
fingerslip
and your island obsessions and
the cause of individuality
just to get sex.
fuck it.
Catch the wave, THEN THIS BALL OF FIRE.
They could be brave, those others, they could be
but they could be useless.
They could be useless until we meet in the eye.
TO BE FOOLISH: TO HAVE FAITH.
YOU MUST USE THE TOXIC GIFT AS PLEASURE
EVERYTIME
YOU LIGHT A FIRE IT WILL BE COUNTED.
STILL PREOCCUPIED WITH MIND. YOU AND ALL
LIKE YOU.
I KNOW
I KNOW
I KNOW IT'S HARD TO LET GO.
These seasonal disputes. This ismy fucked intention.
I hope it's genuine, but I ask.
This is my homage to the unliving, the broke, thegetting stoned, the spending youth,
the kill at the drinkside table--
I've seen you vomit. I've seen your math.
I've seen your face brilliantin the image of light and influence euphoric
Having cum and now tossing in the clouds of RADIOACTIVITY
This is my EGO purifying in flame; I have
taken the skeleton-of-fire
and stepped into it.
This is the hermit.
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