* ludibrium ventis * fatuus * ludibrium pelagis *
A portrait of a virile soul. To share, to heal, to inspire. A true call,
to rainbowarriors
everywhere.
And, For More Majesty Enter Here.
Lfe is good, if you breathe, if you exhale the matter you
make matter. All I see is I Sea All. Time is flying cos I’m not holdin’ it
down. I’m loving me in a people are
strange way. I am loving me. It’s utter blasphemy, ecstasy. I love. I do.
It’s an explosive love, for my cognition, I’ve broke all permission, all
permitted admission.
She
spoke words,that would melt
inyour
hands.
This whole existence of mine is beautiful and BEYOND, beyond
all my juggled words and loving licks and artistic tricks.
I am not “lucky”, I just AM. Happily so, and I’ma run with
it. I am brilliant, given gifts from the Creator, for a Reason. I am to follow
my sepia-stained golden road, all the way to my destiny and back, I’ma fly
above all cliffs, a static laugh, a fluid craft, an unborn, daft, death.…..the answer, isY e s.
Here:
I feel fear to give eternal love, that cascades in cycles
within my mettle. I feel fear that some Self other than I, will tire in the
enslavement of I.
I want.
I desire.
My Self rages.
In
lust, fiery and surprising, I rage.
I wish, I dream, to love deeply in a way that I shake,
shaking
I am patient , not rushing the eternal Now,
Yet roaring in silence.
Roaring muted so loud I scream in color. My lack of intimacy
Compels me to a murdered waterfall of tears.
To burst at the seams.
I need to feel that someone will love me without wishing to
ensnare me, to keep me in their pocket, or as a metal locket. I am not a robot.
How can I fully and freely love on a level past the
transitory, past the superficial, past the ego?
How can I have that, which I know so well, in return? I am
scared to be taken…
“Because you know that
gentleness is stronger than severity, that water is stronger than rock, that
love is stronger than force.”
“Perhaps you seek too
much, that as a result of your seeking you cannot find.”
What was I thinking? Mari. Ah. The mother in her rots
and divulges itself, rolling like invisible green stitched hills of sludge out
the pore of the earth. There is so much anger there, did she recognize in real
time what she wanted from her attraction of me. I pick flies up, they canoodle
in my cavern of a nostril, I can identify them hair by minutae hair. Ah. Mari.
What? Did you want me to bring you happiness, bring you my eternal rosy checked
child that sits in my well and sings lullabies to sleep and while in sleep. I
don’t recognize the point, I don’t recognize her state, shes kept it so locked
up, the fly has flown away. Her sludge slips back up and in, and yet I still
want to touch her. To be close to her, my idea of her. No, the soft her that I
see beneath the sludge, the shiny pink conch shell that is far past flirted
with grime. We are two aloof crabs in the coasts of courtship. We met pincer to
pincer and neither clawed soft shell. But that is how I am, my skittering will
carry on. My deep fed desire for my mother’s love in precious other female
spirits will haunt me forever more. Delightfully so. Things come full circle,
and as another bloody knuckle tore wall for me, I tear wall up in the Boldt.
Strange, being aware of your Oedipus complex and being fine with it. Nothing to
be not fine about, as I see. Yet in Mari, there is not sweet. There is neutered
fruit, crisp and tart, and breaking my teethe. Ah. Mari. And yet here I type,
tippy tappy along, crab crawling, soul divulgin’, sludge diverging, livingroom
of this living groom. Why, Mari? Why the long face. Will I have to write a song
about how you pin pricked my record player face. How did I flittingly follow
your tune? What was there that I could birth? And what of this now, here, this
tippity typing. What of it? Why do I find the need to one-two binary code my
fee-ling. Or lack thereof. What do I feel for her….lust, disgust, …..ah the
nurturer in me looms! Oy vey. I could see the possible symbiosis, I could
imagine it.
And there, there it is. The culprit. Imagination.
Devastation. No, carnation and re- re-re-re-re incarn[innate
ascend]ion.
I can imagine
us, as I can every psycho-lover that enters my womb of a forest, my pine-treed dilettante,
my evergreen serenade.
I take what I can work with, and work with it wonders. Work
it to wonder.
To full of wonders, until it is transformed, and in my state
of quixotic thunderlust, I fall like acid rain, disheveled and pulling up the
scratchy-clothed socks of lethargy.
Too much gain, turn down the speakers ac/dc, ah I see
deceit. Self deceit. My favorite fool of a took. Tool of a fool, book of a fucking
dedicated to the Self.
I am learning to be alone. To be without the obsessive
mother impulse that drives me through water like a blinded hydra.
Talkin’ mazes through smiles, miles ahead of human stalkin’
Its all so made fake in the mind. What a beautiful captor, a
false pretender, horribly false irony of human dictating.
I am shooting through roots to return to desert fruits,
Salty peaks and nippled freaks.
I havent seen my father in five months. I havent seen my
brother, my fellow lover, my own. I havent seen the younger dichotomy of me,
the other angel, not fallen. With a sax to axe my bullshit that is so sludged
and so sweet, sweet as can be.
The one that you loved is gone. Here is my steed and I, one
in the same.
I am going to swallow the feet of Kenyans running, Saharan
hallucinations in my dreams, where Avaoln is lost to me. A lot of exploration
in nightwoods of yore, to yore, true fool’s are golden.
I am hesitant, quiet. Araid to be myself in front of theose
who hold power over me. My father. My fether. My bood runs purple, over your
ice tundras that hug the insides of your eyes, the lairs of your mind. A
beautiful captor. You are taken.
And I am almost free. And in that way, I am already
emancipated, masturbated, celebrated, continuated, forever less.
Nothing can stop me, because I am everything.
My ego stifles my unending patience. I look to attain the
moment of ego slippage so that my electricity can fully warp me in the purplest
true.
I do not want to be anything FOR anyone. I simply want to
be. The survival mechanism that splinters my organism, dissects my faculties,
analyzes me and does not synthesize or sow my fields, that is the gray twilight
of cages propagating and curvature coming to leave my essence resting in smoke.
I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.
I am the bitter Uniqorn, solitariomnipresence.
Quiero todos cosas. Por favor. Comprende.
I am so close. To a world so foreign that I imbibed for
centuries. I’ve been here for so long. So long. Too short, you know. A thousand
and one nights I’ll spend. And wherever you wish, or whoever you dream, I’ll
be the shadow and the light beam.
I’m I’m stutter stutter you binary onetwo type bullshit. My
body is lethargic, drowning like mad in this concrete jungle. I shudder to know
my first thoughts are PMS. Does it exist? Well yes my female body is preparing
to beat eggs out. I’ll make a bunt velvet cake with my bloody cunt. I feel a
harshness looming looming looming up inside of me. A trueness. But I am very
distrustful after this Spain trip and Lanelle and Games People Play and Myself
and my Demon.
Is there truth, universal? Or will I find my own patented
version?
If it is on an individual basis then why the fuck should I
judge anyone for their actions or thoughts or mode of motions? And vice versa.
Ah but I see a mass adoption of “truth” by passive flocks of beings, catholic
school blocks inside many heads, like baptism bowls in the dark.
Spain was uncomfortable. I stepped wide grinning into a
mouth of hungry consumption. Never satisfied, is that my type? No fuck that,
fuck types. I’M just an insecure gangly confused youngun. Haven’t even hit 20
human made lengths called years.
I don’t like any of these measurements. TIME, SPACE. I am
distrustful. My eyes are more wide. Don’t measure them, however.
Spain. Cancellation. Catala. Y Portugal. I am afraid to look
at the pictures. I am afraid to look at her face. I don’t know what is right or
wrong. My WHOLE BEING IS A TADPOLE FETUS, SWIRLING AROUND IN A SWIMMING WOMB
UPON A DISMAL POND.
I am changing so much and so rapidly that I could
potentially fit anywhere. If I felt the compulsion. Problem is, I get back from
a location I assumed I’d find fulfillment in, and I feel NOTHING. No compulsion
for anything. Except art. Which may have been some blassi brainwashing,
clandestino.
Art. Yes, I want to create. But there is conflict there. I
doubt myself. And I do not feel the heavy motion of my genius. The sultry
brusque voice yelling at me and hurling grapefruits in the name of art. I am decidedly undecided and not even
that. CONFUSED. Fuck you Kerouac.
Spain. Dammit. My mind is a frenzied staircase of marbles.
Bounce!
Spain. Masochism. Masoooccchhiiisssmmmm. Jizm. A prison.
My father. My lover. Myself. mY MOTHER TOO. Do we all
operate in this back slashin saunter step. ?
I can barely process anything now. My pinkie toe is bleeding
cos I’m picking at it in pain and stress. Anxiety from what? Having no home?
Trusting no one and disgust of the human race which I am. No mummy and daddy,
I’m not ashamed of being weird or queer or strange, I’m ashamed I share your
blood, your epidermis, your genus and species! I’m discontent with my fellow
kin. Collective kin.
Why must we play games? Why must our hearts also be concrete
and the skin a cold stone labyrinth. Even the phantom would be proud of this
torture chamber.
And on top of that we beat up ourselves. An added irony is
our motion to destroy ourselves. Perhaps because the concrete living is too
painful and we are too lazy to transform the pain, much less the conditions.
A lot of it is fake I see. It’s like a large swab of saliva
cracking through my eve’s apple. Unpleasant like rotten heavy fruits, made
heavy by their stones and life’s bruises.
Day in, day out. It’s a methodical habit.
Will I develop a habit? Haven’t I already? Is my life a
habit? Is that human…human consistency. Is life just a series of
habits…slightly varied, and then death.
And the lights from the moldavites ring the shakles round
your bodice like crackling embers in a fiery temple.
When they solidfy you of your design.
Crazed from little sleep and little friends.
Well is dry and bubbling up again, foamed at the mouth like
a dreadful and vengeful sea, of haughtiness.
I sea. Radical fractals. Classical music in synthetic
synchronicity on a purple stallion in an old dream that is really too young.
Impotence, impatience. On a fucking computer screen, I shine
the sheen I’ve made in fake and authentic highs, teeth chattering or clenching
or falling into place upon anothers skin.
I am motion only. And yet its far more simple and too
complex. Seven planes of existence and much more. My heart hurts from ensnared
smoke and withheld watery explosions.
And yet there lies love. All caked in a muddy sweat across
valleys of a slothful desert. Horrendous energy.
And in other’s eyes I find my peace. Oases of swathed
experientials, all cacti of prickly soothedness, I sleep.
I sleep in your eyes. In mine, I cry. In mine I see
multiples, so many other eyes, I collect like a rusted orphan after marbles in
a flea market. Hands bruised between the search by feet and ground.
Inhale, exhale spurned.
Intuition haunts me and guides me, my inner compulsion like
a broken shooting star. Black like coal and still burning gold.
Why do I fear the addiction of the reflection?
Good question.
Don’t capitalize for me. Do not capitalize me. Correct me.
Institutionalize my talons that sing the rapture of the evil raptor of the
saintly sky dwelling siren.
\\
I create so that I do not disappear. So that my passage is
eternal and infinite always and yet I
wish to rebel against my passage against all that has ever been of me, of
everything.
A young boy hooded and pointed ear. Massage my passage of
time. All I ever said was ‘clock’. All I’ve ever regurgitated was vagaries from
the whispy windows of my ghostly architecture. haunted trappings of a long lost
burp. Blood-in-a-syringe burp, of wisdom far into the future’s past.
I am not insane, I am nothing of words. I am a keeper of
time and of vagary. I am a sage who is like a virile mare, white and lost in
the woods.
A Necessary RockanAHard Place: What goes Down Must Come
I’ve got so much to say, to one two type, binary babblings, who knows whats coming from my finger pecked mind. I kinda hate life right now, just the bursts of it I feel in my gut that aint quite a gut right now, feelin low functioinal. Low functioning, fluctuating. I think of my life in comparion, like comparing paintings and I simultaneously appreciate and despise my lifestyle. I was bout to say my blessings but really its all about perception. I engage in activities that we deem luxury and high living and its all perception. I LIVE IN AN ALIENATED SOCIETY THAT DISTRUSTS ITSELF IN TOTALITY. Our “standard” of living is deemed the best in the world, and this is false. False false false it is not tea time, never will be he-re. Our specialization has been at great cost. This society I have grown up in is crumbling, person by person, crumb by crumb, crack in the ice. I see it every where I go, especially when in crowds or completely alone. Im either sensory overloaded or sensory overloaded, unless Im tired then I am practically drunk.
Why am I found so attractive. Inga says she can spot a self-actualized person from a mile away. Am I soon to be actualizee? Interesante. I don’t know, and I don’t care right now. Its all about scrambling, in flux. Entropy, I want to appease me, I want a change in reality, a change in society, a change in me. I’m hanging in cruxed balance, between warm wood and cold nails a’peircin. I devalue my experiences, and I shouldn’t. Or should i? and look at it under a different lens, change the fishing for love for the fishing for self. Self love, so easy to say or sputter or type or utter, but not to do. A daily process. One day at a time. Its true man , woman, distinct-ians, martians. I want to go to space one day. I could if I wanted to. Itd be fascinating, if I so choose it to be. My perception is so fragile I feel, so innocent and recently clay-smeared upon a red rock wall. I’m a young orb, a young energy. My time is so few and so limitless, I’ve been here for an eternity and not at all. And yet this society only sees juxtaposed colors and I see a spectrum, starkness only comes in realization, not perception, and I can see beauty serenity and malicious callousness all in one glance of an eyeball, all in the back of your head, my head, the cats head. I can see so much simultaneously that my mind chews on for long burps of time before I understand, before I hit the Starkness. Crispy realization, bon. I feel out of my element, my lungs have been drying since I was 17 I think, drying out my element. I need mar. the sea. Marthesea. Marthesea. I need artistic inclinations and idiotic foolish aspirations and meaningless sex as art and meaningless art as sex, and all the meaning of those two combined. I need silence and yet I fear it. Even this clicking of white keyed devils, staring at me in mirrors of paris, set me off in a way where my discomfort cant truly touch me, not yet. One day I will fully slide in to my crazy, and all these energies around me will mute into salt and peppered teevee screens.
I like this stream, floating up it, thrashing down it. Navigating, im learnin, and I begin to trust myself, and distrust the world around me less. Dark times, darker than ive seen, is an omen of ominousness. Ready set grow. I see death and killing, and a lot of concrete growing, how doth the green riseth from grey? Good question bad question just a neutral suggestion. I don’t quite accumulate it all, I just ;let it loose and do so frivoulously and with cunning, not fastidious in my perfectionist way. And I wonder if people can see my insecurities and I wonder all the time if I am just like everybody else: convinced I am special, convinced the condition of bagged flesh doesn’t wrap me. It does, it doesn’t. maybe in actuality it does, but if my perception paints me, if, then I am not in the condition. I am a cerebral entity. Here by mistake. To watch and die in silence, or in the loudest sonic boom, or both at once. Why do I search for fulfillment at the end of rosy red lips and fine check bones, wide canals of smiles and breasts for the horizons? Why? Why do I seek the beauty which I myself could be, incarnate, and yet could never be? Why do all being both attract and repulse me, and why do I fear to be lonely? And yet crave loneliness. And yet crave ugliness and dirtiness and utter depravity and the like, the faint. Why do I want to smash my head between my could-be lovers car door and steel vee-hicle, slice my skin with sickles of laughs, of frustrating hesitates, my mind fights fate, my mind fights all. And I lose to it continuosly, for most of the awake time, and only in thee deepsest hours, when all is dark and frothy black, like cold syrups from bleeding willows, I come alive. More alive than if my brain were bursting its brim, attacking the sky. More than if my body dies, and mind kept onward. More when I am in a lull, a swift lull where all makes true and sense is achieved, where I am most natural and therefore most everything, greatness omnipresence, no seeping doubt or barraging egomania, no hair cutting of tight jean dressing, no girl-i-croon-for-you or shut the fuck up slobbering dickwad, none of that. Just sunny, just a Viracocha like lull, a quiet existence, a humming that is broken in perfection. When I am asleep, or in my farthest escape.
Life is so easy and it is so hard.
My reality makes little sense.
I am told I am lucky but do not feel it.
I feel to escape.
Escape what?
I feel dark times.
I feel my destiny is coming to nibble my ass
Then bite a chunk out
Hopefully of my head, not my butt.
I want to learn to mind-quiet.
I think either this society will have to go, or I will have to go.
I am okay with dying, whenever.
I am okay with dieing, whenever.
I am content with sensation.
I am content with my own stimulation, and yet am needy.
So needy.
So wanting of someone to affirm it is permissible for my existence.
I feel guilty.
For my breath upon this earth, when it has too many breaths already.
For my rearing in a society built upon shame and guilt.
For a devience of love, from everyone by everyone, almost.
I feel guilty.
But that means nothing.
For even the smallest waxing of milky hope appears on both sky and earth, in reflections.
One day I am going to write a play. Or a novel. Or the
longest endless transcript you’ve ever smelt. burning Paper with the eyes of a
dark elf.[]
Avalon.
It is all so befuddled. I remember a room of potions. I
remember falling from a ship, a very large ship. I remember Jack, I remember
slum streets deserted.
DREAMS.
I am going to dream Avalon’s world. And then I will know.
He comes to me, in the waking world. He takes over my body.
He has so much anger. So much fire, it tinkers away in me like a busted heater.
Not necessarily dream, but fall. I will fall sideways into
his world. I will be him, in me. I’ve done it so many a time. But I was too
selfish to see. To see he.
Now. I a m ready.
Avalon, I want to know your world. Even if the black on
white one-two binary type is but a fake, I do this anyway. I want to know your
world.
It is our world. Just like this waking rule is ours.
I wonder and I remember. Do I hide you? Do I smother you
deep within, just as you do I in the night world?
I want to bridge our binary. Symbiose. I will not lie, right
now, except the lies I believe myself. I will be honest: I am so tired, Avalon.
I am so tired by this waking world. That never sleeps, and
despises a dream. The dream that keeps alive those awake.
I realize I need you. And perhaps you need me. Together,
strength in infinity.
Like a long lost friend. That is how I feel about you. A
long lost lover, even. Yes.
I’m beginning my search. My scouring of the empty bowls of
the dark expanse that is beyond any human thought, word, theory.
I’m looking for you… a companion within me, and without me.
Perhaps this is a self-made consolation for destiny. Perhaps
this heeds not your long, candle-wicked ear. But, if you are right here, in
that which I yet cannot feel, then you know what I have begun to exhale. You
see what I have released.
Christmas lights an no sleep nights. Withering, dithering, rhyming myself into oblivion and beyond, short of a frond. Except Botanies gone, and I’m synapomorphied into change, yet again, and always. Catalyzed. Catatonic. I am at the same time, all the cats.
Patricia, and Natalie. Sweet honey bees. Patricia looks at me with a mother’s love. Why do I strike deep in mines of fools gold when the richness is on the level I was birthed upon? Pits of hell entice me, the heaven is where I am all ready at. And I, O I. I want both. Greedy goblin saint of both heaven and hell. I could see the beauty, mm.
I see the beauty. Fuck, I see the beauty. On such a professionalound, level, profoundessional level. So fresh and so clean.
Morgan Le Fay
I havent been scouring for desire. Not up in these parts. And yet I have, but not consciously.
So, Meems. Yes, I typitty type Meemsi. When ya gonna get off your blue balled board and jump into the SEE. ?
You breathe best when you are drowning, you know that, fishee?
I know. Its time to pursue. Pursue my desire. Learn my desire. And not become the desires of some other desirers desire. Damn desiring. Objectionable Buddha.
So is the dragon cloner slain? Not truly, I will be the perpetual wrapper of balloon strings ‘pon dragons. But I am okay with that, as long I see the that the beauty in front of me is in actuality, a pyro-nostriled behemoth ready to lurch me to an obscure cave.
AVALON. VIRACOCHA. PAIN. The youngest brother. You lay deep inside me. You emerged today, you drove my desire today.
I don’t understand where I am. Lyrics I be writing but the rest I am fighting.
Rhyming seems school girl, deconstruct the shit out of that til the divine pooping is nothing more than wasted words, slurred sexual innuendos, attractions animalistic and sometimes I wish I could beat down somebody,
anybody.
I want to make music that lets everyone become overwhelmed with my perceptive pain, my deep wells gone aplundered by fucker after fucker.
How I wish I lip the sweat from your neck and still call you friend in the morning.
Why does sex rule everything? Why does the human species revolve its every motion round procreation. Why do all these people terrify me, less their faces and more there feces, there shit, their feelings. Save me. Myself. I talk to you as if a wiser yogi. I detach myself and straddle the chair and pep talk you like a blue eyed babe, coddled, swaddled. My identity swallowed. I cant contain myself, my scrawny upper body is reeling in envy of muscular lower. I feel my talent untapped, stunted. I feel wasted time but not so, prep period. The calm before the storm except its thunderous right now and my running isn’t the rumble.
My stillness is so loud. And yet ive never felt my heart beat like this its as if my body can speak of whats coming, if only I knew morse code, do figures of the figure my heart is a beaten, a bleating, god a bleeding, violence. Why so much focus, cos I know its wrong, I feel it every where I go. I suffocate in violent thought slewn from others dead beat eyes.
Laughter comes hollow when I know so much violence. And into the art world I retreat.
A mareality I am instating, to flee the disease. But I know already, I am so sure that I will never forget the violence and the hate, I can never forget the hollowed iris, the brutality I have never occipitally perceived but have transcendentally embodied. I am lover and a hater. I am so extreme sometimes and I wonder always if some kind soul will love me, cos I havent met the spirit who guides and gaurds my wells.
So undesirable and misspelled, come numbers and vicious
life. Eyes lay black, I write about flies at mob dinner parties, cooing sweet
hummings to swooped ear. I have no idea where I am in life right now. I feel in
free fall, my skin is slowly sprinting from my bone. I believe in
worthlessness, and only little else. I am the coward and I cannot move. The
biggest judge and from which halls I rise to fall out, cobbled bruises, numb
kowtowing cries, half hearted. Art is where the truth is, and I do not believe myself
an artist.
I am an artist. I am a coward. I hate myself right now, I
hate my cowardice. I am angry at my impotence. I am drowning by the hand of
both tear duct and mucous membrane. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion except
flitting anxiety in slow motion time that feels like many a ravenous stampede
of creatures hailing from hell. I am even made discontent and cruel by this
freefallwrite, for it is not what I want and it is Holden Caulfieldesque. I see
myself as optimistic, but many a times it was pure sugary numbness.
My resilience and mystique scares me. My malleability of
personality is a terror like a sportscoat hanging in the dark. I can fill
anyone’s head.
Will I write college essays till I die.? Let inertia take me
flailing, or sweet cold docility, with the bloody ink trailing down paper,
wood, carpet. Or the one-two binary type of death.
FUCK ALL OF YOU. RESPONSIBILITY IS MY DEVIL. I FEAR
ISOLATION. I CRAVE ISOLATION.
I WANT TO DIE SURROUNDED BY MY ART.
I WANT TO LIVE MAKING IT.
I AM AFRAID TO LET ANYONE SEE MY ART. I AM AFRAID TO STUDY
ART, TO HONE ANY SKILL. I WILL BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR MY GREATNESS.
I am an egomaniac. I believe in my superiority. I am the
heaviest rock in the sea.
With the bitten tongue of coincidings, I feel that I am
worthless. I feel a force penetrating me, installing ice columns in my every
tubile, creating a tundra ofthrobbing unfeeling, burning me into uncaring. I stand alone in this ice
haven and the twinkling of small black notes freed from paper accompany my
frosted leather coat. Solitude. Fear.
I am bound? Or am I mobile?
Am I just the fumbling tripper, the twang-scarred acrobat of
avoidance?
Sprinting from myself like my pencil-legged father. Eyes
filled with turquoise lead, crying fools gold, slivers of venomous idle chat
sifting through Lord Capitalism’s room.
I will leave this unfinished because nothing can be worth
recognition and yet fame is what I crave. Attention is my withdrawal, and the
hermit is my drug.
My fish are fighting. The pierced lion envelops the
whitemare’s left neck.
The trees are mourning for me. And praying that I find my
peace.
I need to believe in something other than my worthlessness
and impotence.
Exactly Non-Exactlies: One, Dun Dun Dun the Begging
the-questioninnings
Location: Arcata, CA, 1355 Queer streete. Apt A for Winner,
but not really. At all.
Further
Location: Bright blue room, sitting on carpet of capitalism, leaning on the
purple bed of privilege.
Date: November 11th, 2011; 11-11-11.
Time: Western ideology of time- 8:48 pm. In current
“timezone”.
Martian
time: Now; Grok time.
My time: sleepy.
Doings; happenstancings: I had a moment, now, eating cereal
and yogurt and Kobe’s zante currants. A moment like all the rest, but
different. I want to take moments, like this, to type down everything I am
doing at the moment, for future reference. [If all the Ifs fall into place,
that is.] A moment of moments, exactly what I am doing. But of course, not at
all, or, only, but. Eats, shoots, leaves.
I sit here now, comp in lap, clitoris for a head, angry,
disenchanted, and hopeful beyond any fart of the brain (a habitual excreter).
In front of me is my school baton rouge backpack, an electric guitar slumped up
against the wall like James Dean, but too fuzzy from the drinks to hit on
Oswald mi cello (!). Oswald, standing wounded but graceful, like a bloody crane
I see at the marshes. I’m devouring cereal, eating too quickly but not enough,
hating that food costs money and therefore my life costs money. I owe the world
payment just to defecate. At least I have deemed it sublime poopings. Grreat
Shits. I am the shit, a suspect narcissist according to ----, the too-skinny
academic who finds me attractive and loveable, frustrated too cos I wont make a
move on her, insecurities abound. Cereal bowl could whistle, I licked it clean,
unlike cunts as of late.
I’m worried about my body. No, not the physical appearance,
for once. I am worried about my digestive system, my intestines. The damage
done, the needle and the damage done, from stress and life and Being. I am
worried about my arms, which crack and are too spindly. I know I need worry
less and work more. And maybe as I Live I will let myself grow into my Spirit;
strong and solid. I am putting hope in the future, right Now. Grok. Grok it
out.
Going to the greenhouse. A noche. Alana is performing, all
them vicious and vivacious ladies, gentlemen, gentladies and ladymen. Justin,
beautiful.
Moving from queer street. To homoerotic street. All I want
right now is to have my own apartment, Now. And be fucking ----- over every
appliance and piece of furniture in both Plaza design and said apartment.
Denying the biological, I do. But, eh, I am an animal. A
graceful cat, lynx. A Uniqorn, truly. Above all else, Viracocha and a Uniqorn.
Narcissistic. Gotta, cos its paired with disgust and shame
toosies. Lets fix this nightmare up and face eleveneleveneleven.
I tried for exact and fingered abstract. Who knew, sublime
poo.
ello. I have a feeling this will be a hard blog to follow. Perhaps I want it to be hard for you to follow. Perhaps I want this blog to be like a fruit bowl in a dark as night kitchen. A fruit bowl where I don't really want you to find the pomegranate, as it is hidden betwixt apples and other less sensual fruit. And the greatest fear of mine... that you will reach right in and cup the red shelled fruit, unclench your jaw and bite, and hate the taste of it all.
Enjoy. I feel like it is time to share. For anyone and for no one.
