Basically,
I've come to
loathe her,
as much
as I love
her face.

Am I incapable?

Or,
is this the end
of every
romantic
by proxy?
Lukewarm,
and underwhelmed?

I thought
partners
were supposed
to help.
Why do
I strive,
then, all by
myself?
All by myself?

Is there a question?
"Have you settled?"

What the ****
do
you think?

Love is terrifying, like that.
It binds you from your judgment.

I have settled, yes.
Settled in, to the fact

That love just
goes
like that.

Have I settled?
You really think there's more?

Capture excitement
while you can,

understanding
excitement

never
lasts.

I talk a lot about motion,
like I know a thing of progress.
Drop of water in the ocean.
Beautiful ripples of tragedy,
of comedy.

Nothing to it,
that's what we know.
We all know
the words and we go:

Tear into space,
terraforming,
ISO: a meaning higher than
all the lies we spin, just to gravitate.

I talk a lot about language,
communication's importance.
Did you know I only know one?
So, *******, I'm an *******.

Nothing to it,
that's what we know.
Developed
world depressives, go:

Tear into space,
terraforming,
ISO: a meaning higher than
all the lies we spin, just to gravitate.

We all go
to return
to one place.

We all shoot the farthest we've ever shot,
just to realize we're separate by margins
drawn by logos and emotion --
nothing to come will be made of much
but those two things, because
escape would be improbable.









(becomeasgodsbecomeasgodsbecomeasgods)

Beside a full size bed,
full of destiny and dream,
a corpse dressed up
to fit among
the living, softly sleeps.

Carving sAl(i)vAtiOn in black
marker on the walls,
recounting upset memories,
I stick the landing.
I didn't plan to stay

In this depressive state,
but I'm fully equipped.
Adaptable to necessity,
without trying to fit.
I may be sad, reclusive,
virulent at my worst --

When will you
come to terms with this curse?
When will you learn
it's best
you be
who you
need?

When will you
fall in love with this curse?

When will you learn,
there's plenty room
for the misfit?

Well,
memories,
hemorrhages
well
up from the sticky hole.

One time, I fell and hit my head
three times, three places, once in each:
the cabinet, the sink, the bathtub.

Practice being me by proxy.
Out of my head. Out my head.
Tangible damages,
incorporeal skeins.
Mess? Wreck. Heck,

This time, I stood and cracked
my skull on the cabinet:
Clarity? Is that you?

Practiced being me by proxy,
so so long.
Practiced being me by proxy.
Practiced being me by proxy,
so so long.
Practiced being me by proxy.

Clarity?
Or is this
an actual
hemorrhage?

Well,
Memory,
my sticky hole
is filling up
where the water was ****** by the ground.

If you're a lover, then where is your passion?
Where is your interest in me, your
curiosity of my affairs?
If you're a lover, then where is your attention?
Any given day, you ignore me for the TV.
You turn and say, though, you burn for me.
Given how you wait to be prompted,
is it hard to imagine I don't feel interesting?

If you're a lover, when's the last time you expressed
at least some minor urge to **** me?
How am I supposed to buy a charade
when I'm the one who must wind the key?
If you're a lover, why do you never write
about me, but when you're sad?
Where is your urge to hold me, as I've held
you cradled for all these years?
Don't you think I ever need protection or intention
without a beggar's plea?

If you're a lover, then why do you forget my presence
until I remind you that I'm alive?

When I look down I know
one world apart
from when I look up.

A world below, more reality
than what I've known of reality
through living since my birth.

One earth, two worlds,
splitting hairs,
scrambling airs,
creating errors,
chastising errs
so much
that nothing's
learned.

Up/Down,
Living lies,
Blurring lines,
Up/Down --

It's not that I don't know
what's actually worth a ****.

It's that I see worth as a curse,
and would, rather than peace,
see ecstasy return me
into the breeze
as dirt.

Is this love misdirected?
Is this care misplaced?
Yes, I believe it.

Stuck.
Addicted to a part.
Black Knight savior.

Is this concern out of line?
Is this connection still wrong?
Yes: I believe it,
and believe it always shall.

Lead. Tail.
Lead. Tail.
Continued as a favor.

After years at it,
I've come to think
I tail because
I've got no one else.

I suppose I consider
every client an extension
of myself, and
I want someone, so badly,

to help.

Hard pang of metal
louder than my
brittle ears can withstand.
Hard ping of wonder
sent, malicious,
from hidden wonderlands.

Cleave
my warm limbs from me.
Rip
my innards from me.
Substitute synthetic
amplification
for my
basic
weakness.

Remembering hurt.
Designations of dirt.
Crawling, knee and nail.
Dessicated herbs.
Resignation of worth.
Stretching for the bag.

I've seen how this ends.

Up in smoke.
Dreaming delight.
Up in smoke.
Dreaming delight.

How long will this pattern run?
Up until the day is done.
How long will this pattern run?
Up until the day is done.

For any calm from halcyon,
I need

to burn
the herb.

I've seen
how this
ends.

Up in smoke.

(...)

I quit smoking cigarettes.
Romantic ideations of death.
Thinking of the paper taste, now
brings me the same enjoyment.
Balmy, blue summer nights.
Cradled my audience of stars.
Laughing at the shape of waste,
they smile down upon me these days.
I don't know why I quit.
I don't know why I started.
Desperation. Depression.
Emulation? My grandpa, he waved
his hand with his fingers around bones,
tracing orange stories with his dead light,
of his would have been adventures
would he have had the time.

I. I.
I.

I don't have to die
soon!
I don't have to re
tire to my
tomb
to

spin
a tale.

I've been so blue.
Out of the loop
with my body
& my mind,
but,

I. I.

I still have the time.

I've been so stressed.
Forgot I could
depress the stress
button just
fine,

On my
own!

Now, when
I have ***,
I have the breath
for pleasure:

Oxygen.

Drapes in brown &
bubblegum shades.
4 the tongue,
particular taste.
Salt of sea,
air of new &
wet fruit beneath
erected hairs of
the first tree.
Pulp for me?
Spring of life
tributaries
catching at
your knees.
Pulp for me?
Tell me, if I drink,
am I eternal?

Late - ly
I can feel the i - tch, I know:
It's preposterous.

Wh - y is it, that I
never can de - cide
who it is I am, with
con - fi - dence?

Modern tools aside,
I still take the r - ide
taken near distantly by
my an - ces - tors.

Late - ly
I can feel the i - tch, I know!
It's preposterous.

Now, kids, please listen
as you read my voice
how you like. How you like.
I thought I would die by
the time I was twenty five
at fifteen -- but look at me.
Now, kids, I'm touching
twenty nine with a cer -
tain newfound confidence.
I survived the prescription pills,
the gender redefinition, as well
as the hormone therapy, and I
want to tell you that I,
believe in you. I believe in you.

Cel - ebrate all of your pain
at your whim and as you live,
well, the pain will become
your friend and your impetus.

Lately, I can feel the itch.
I know it's preposterous,
but I must continue to
explore and change
unless I aspire to
placidity, and I
don't-- in fact
I never will.

Have you ever clicked that button and seen the next page?
For those missing it there, here, I'll explain.
For just seven US dollars and fifty US cents
a month you can subscribe to this event
and receive two disconcerting things.

First of all, the page itself says you'll be favored by the staff.
Secondly, you'll have more influence than those who don't pay
to influence the trends, which means, control of what is seen.

If you're confused, let me use a modern analogy. More online games than ever use this method of operation, free to play on one side, the other pay to win.

This keeps the total number of overall players high, and with these two sides in the same environment, it's only a matter of time before the desperate give in to this disparity and express piety with cash else completely fizzle out.

That's exactly what we have here. If paying expressly means you immediately mean more to this environment than those who don't, what the hell is the point of this at all, Elliot?

Why not bite the bullet and fully implement a pay-wall?
That way everyone who gives you money can be left alone in peace and harmony to ****** their ***** and/or their *****.

This might work with a game which contains intrinsic rules and values, but to use money to decide the fate of art is the same **** that's been going on for centuries.

Notice to the newer names on this site:

Beware.
You are a commodity.
You are a $

And if you air a grievance, the names who give their money will jump to the defense.

Can't you just be happy and not complain?

The poetry they use their sunshine to boost,
funny,

says the same thing.

It was an experiment I did
but not until I woke to it.
Smile, smile, all the time,
walk? more like a divine stride.
Smile, smile, all the time,
walk? more like flight.
Then I felt a funny thing
but not until I woke to it.

You can smile for the world
all you want, but if they,
don't like your face,
the Hallmark, "Share the love,"
doesn't mean much,
does it?

Oh, yes! I can see
the Happy Days ahead.

Tell me, tell me, all the time,
walk? catch optimism's ride.
Tell me, tell me, all the time,
the ride is more like flight.
Freedom through
and through.

What if this one sided freedom
for me clasps my wrists like chains?

Smile, converse, be true and kind,
you'll receive the love you give.

Right. Right.

Must be nice to be acceptable and
appeal.

Right. Right.

Right?

It was dark and day
the day I read the words came straight
from [redacted]'s brain placed upon
this coded page

Oh my delightful
bedstand book took the rope and pulled
from the poetry a noose
with which to cull

its zombie
body
infused
with life
only as
love peace
& pros
per
ity

[redacted],
imbue
me be
fore I
leave

O,
please

Tonight I watched young Kirsten Dunst get her baby neck ****** by two fully grown men on camera and it was done in the name of art. And if not art, money. And if not money, control. The painter and the profiteer want the same thing. So go Hollywood consume youth to produce martyr material madonna / ***** **** clones. So go cutting edge auteur headfirst for prestige with beans in full exposure as you ****-stuff and engorge those ***** throats with your muscular masculine meat sword. Tonight I watched Corey Feldman become the thing that men made and felt the shudder as he realized it's been over, baby.

Chocolate pudding pillows press to cheekbone.
Lips. Make a sound. Muffled. I can't hear.
I can see your tongue escape your mouth and
fall. To the ground. Hungry. I can taste.
We once prepared fine dining applesauces and
store brand condensed soups on the asphalt.
Chocolate pudding pillows press to your cheekbone
But. Will not stop. At that. Happy now?
I can see your eyes struggle to appear
cogent. To the world. Orbit. E. V. A.
We once loved like children now we play like it's
more than ***** and finger inside.

I take the deepest breath I ever have as I
can't bear to see you sink.
Let's both breathe
cho co late
pu dding.

My toes don't point straight it's a problem!

I walk on my feet that lead to my knees!

My knees work with my thighs!

Thighs work with the hips!

Duck foot pigeon toe leg

Brace or back brace

Face the fact!

Dreams need
   to be
      counted on
fingers      and thumbs.
&   monkey is as monkey does
produce so well
   that it
      cannot think.

That's the matter.
in dispute.
Why --
why move?

Become
a pretzel of
the bottom half
and wait
long enough,
turn back

into
   an
  egg.