austin-heath
~Princess Sleepyhead; He/Him / Musician, writer, nihilist, feminist, and Street Fighter enthusiast. / / http://austinheathmusic.bandcamp.com / https://www.facebook.com/MetropolitanCannibal/ / https://www.facebook.com/AustinHeathMusic/ / http://y3llowjackets.tumblr.com/
My ego is intact, I stole **** from work and my mom isn’t disappointed in me.
I got papers, I got coffee, I got a lot of sleep, I read about that boxer got shot in the head [incidentally] and they said;
“You can’t keep a good man down for long.”
So I’m trying to find out what is “a good man”? Was it the hit and run I saw, or the fathers pushing their kids as products for their success? My high school class, or pretentious friends, or my managers cozy in jobs supported by nepotism calling me lazy, maybe my half dead beat father who kicked me out when I was 18 and convinced me I’d be an alcoholic if I ever drank.
Now your cleaning my ***** out of your sink and holding me and telling me I’m so good.
Maybe it’s my landlords who I never see, trying to evict me, or all the police officers who put like a hundred bullets in those folks car, or every guy who dished out a backhanded compliment to a girl who already cuts, or maybe, I know, it’s the president of the United States.
I paint my face red with lipstick and wait for the chatter of a crowd to turn into a riot of bodies. I sparkle in the light. I scream.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
Pretend to me, like a clown/actor, to be strong and violent. You fight like mothers ease their children into sleep, begging and praying. The fight in you is a cartoon predator selling candy to stoners. I never considered myself someone to contemplate the legitimacy of strangers, but I don't know you or your motives.
I don't know you.
I love like a hawk tears into a sparrow.
Viscerally, yet naturally.
Savagely.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
I've been imagining a niche of people who take me seriously as a writer. People who see some beauty and legitimacy in the way I float through paychecks, late on rent and holding my breath as I sink in independence. I see the waterlogged corpse of an old man in the mirror, sunken in and sullen, melting like wax off a candle.
I thought these were just waves of depression, but I feel an entire ocean lurks and churns inside me, begging to pour out.
My ribs are bending under the pressure, my lungs are folded flat against my chest, my breath is short and cold.
Thoughts are the moon that stirs the tide.
And I carry this weight on a foundation of ******* sticks.
I'm sorry if I came on too hard, or came off too melodramatic.
Although honestly I'm sorry for too much, far too apologetic to be a legitimate writer anymore.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
*I remember telling you about that ******* Louis Keys and his three stage names, and slapping each other at a party earlier bc we couldn't feel a thing, and I said something to you in the bathroom and you looked at me like you were really happy.*
I remember making you curry that was too spicy, and you took me to Akron to see the 1975 and I held you tight that night and you thanked me for coming and I thought how strange it was.
I don't know how to mend a broken heart,
especially a heart I'm probably breaking.
I just want to hold you together.
I just want to not be afraid for a while longer,
but I want to be awake for it.
God, I want to believe in my love.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC
I met Helen on tinder, and we kinda just had a standoff with words for a day. Then we followed each other on Tumblr and found our mutual love of 90's anime.
So tonight she's coming over to use my bathtub for a bath bomb, since she doesn't have her own, and in turn I'm getting two tickets to the Cleveland Orchestra.
Last night my room mate threw up drunk and I passed out after drinking a whole bottle of Irish Cream while cleaning the bathroom and trying to do the first verse of "Encore" over any song I could find.
She came home and just gasped at all the hair and dust moved out from the room.
Now she's smoking in it. ****
I'm numb in the fingers and hands and just trying to not throw up. I'm having bouts of depression and anxiety and this ***** Caitlyn Sessor, Cessor, I don't even know, won't show me any mercy, or give me a break at work. She wants my god **** head.
I just want to sleep for two weeks straight and have money again.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 9:19 AM UTC
Tomorrow is so uncertain that I'm convinced
if I can make today just a little brighter
I've succeeded. I've won.
I can't beat them.
You bob and weave without precision , swaying to a tune played poorly. Piercing eyes, and heavy hands, yet all the power behind those ten fingers
can't pay the rent on time, can't keep food in the cupboards, can't keep them out of your home. You are so much I cannot even imagine.
They come in like a storm, shuffling through the cracks in the doors and windows, a shiver up your spine, I can feel their breath on your neck. Cold.
Tomorrow is so, so very close, yet I'm convinced if I can sleep in my own bed tonight, they'll never find me. They'll have to wait like I do, till tomorrow, and till another tomorrow.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]
Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third ***** nationalism. They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."
Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.
We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.
Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Carry on soldiers, and we'll pretend we don't notice you; the hollow shell/carcass of a wasp rotten black inside the window. Forgotten.
I'm sick to my stomach thinking of the rotten disappointment I'll become.
I feel the ties that bind us tighten, and bound our hands together as we crash into each other, and my love is the anchor that held this ship, and now pulls it down, churning, groaning, and bending in the middle. My hands on you go from desired to expected to pushed away, like a child treats their steamed vegetables.
I empty out, becoming the shell of what is a full man.
I empty out, becoming the shell of what was a full man.
Either that or I don't think much, anymore.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
“Wanna break into Case?”, she smiles as she says it, “I’ve done it before.”
I doubt nothing that comes from her, and I shake like a leaf on a tree climbing up the children’s rock wall because she doesn’t know I’m afraid of heights yet.
We sneak into church and listen to their choir off key and someone walks in right as I’m about to ****** Christ’s abs right on the cross.
We’re young and we’re loud and we’re unstoppable and we’re fearless, unless our strangers are louder than us.
A heavy fog is rolling in.
We wake up early and soaked in affection. You leave and come back with coffee. We are desperate to stay here, in this bed, in this moment. The rain outside, our warm bodies next to each other, kissing and laughing at Reddit memes.
I’m not a crook, but I stole you and I’d do it again, and I’d do it every chance I could or had to. Closer to home here then where I struggle to pay rent.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Approaching nuclear winter, and I can't wait for apocalypse wine soaked Bukowski to crawl out his grave and slug it out with the man in black.
I hope they buried Bukowski in that ill fitting t shirt with his beer gut trying to escape from the bottom, and we should feel ***** for making ******** legends.
We don't.
I'm collecting bottles of alcohol on my window sill;
1 Bottle of Vanilla Smirnoff to cap off poorly cooked rice dishes and sleep dizzy at night. I killed it with a screwdriver some time after New Year's Eve, I guess.
1 Bottle of Kamora, to make a white russian, but we put most of it in egg nog and then watched Neil Breen speak out loud what he should have kept to himself, and we ****** on my couch to see if my room mate would walk in on us, and we fell asleep like that and woke up with sore necks. I stuck that flower you stole inside the bottle, and now it's plastic neck wilts a little more in the sunlight and radiator every day.
1 Bottle of Espolon, but it was filled with more ***** She brought it last time we saw each other and we watched some anime and I made everybody smell the ***** that smelled like pure sugar. I don't know what you see in me, but I hope you stop.
1 Bottle of Copa De Oro to round out more nights with the only drink I can fix well, walking through feet of snow to sleep early and wake up late. I'd play with your hair and skin and watch you fall asleep and wake up at all times of the night, and I'd wake up just to do it again, because this is my dream.
A single can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, stolen from my room mate. I thought I was clever without trying too hard, I keep washing all her dishes and she repays me with a messy living room and a sink full of dishes. Living like this is **** and we get along just fine.
I hope someone gets that ******* Alex Jones with a bat to the side of the head, and buries him in a rose garden, as long as we're still fighting fascists and not trying to hold hands and sing "Kumbaya".
I think, I hope, we're all tired of holding our breath.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC