When all the water has left
the dry Earth will sing to Sky
Return, please, return!
Both the stone pulling
and the void pulling
like to kiss in the middle
of war. Scorched turns to damp
in the end, providing our
diligence and duty to life.
It's shameful the water goes
now when such destruction
hangs in the near distance.
Diligence may no more undo
the damage, for the time
has gone as well.

Broke, sitting with half plate
Pasta, butter, spice
Shuffle through my old clothes
I used to look nice

What is nice, but smaller?
Smaller, smaller, still
String bean and potatoes
Go fine together

The grocer tries to tell me,
"Divide, conquer, divide."
"What is nice, but smaller?"

I guess the grocer's right

In the end it doesn't matter if I get my **** touched or my **** ******
Get permission to lip little kisses on your hip skin, kiss that ****
It turns out I can please myself, with my mouth, only the wall's help

Basically
I'm the
disease

your
poor heart
could not

pump,
process,
or purify

the
tasteless
something
in the water

waste drains
exit into your water

Put you in duress,
the deviant disaster,
the master depravity,
the agender **** toy,
smiling sodomite

offered only carnal
distress for your innocence,
trash for your
sacred naivete


(but I'm not wrong . am i // am i .)

We dream
we want
the awards you take
We dream
we buy
the hypocrisy
We dream
we want
the new days you describe
in your speeches

The soap box betrays you

Twitter. Tweeting. Facebook. Facade.
Insta. Instant. Dopamine rush.

If you could separate your self from the stage,
that would be great.
-- but if you're going to make a political statement
while accepting an award for your humanity,
you might want to think about what your
individual actions tell the world about you.

Who will listen?
Who will ask?
Looks like money once more
takes the last laugh.

She's lounging on the futon playing Stardew Valley. We both get a kick out of it. Mainstream gaming can **** a *****. Exceptions occur, of course. I look into the bathroom mirror through a splatter of mouthwash and toothpaste and groom my hair, my face like I think highly of myself. I don't. I shave and I pluck, admire the edges, pretend I'm of feminine energy, pretend according to the faces and voices that matter. We have to look out for ourselves somehow, but in whole what the world can see of us makes them think we're outsiders trying to climb into an exclusive box. I want to find myself beautiful, and I know you must be happy with yourself, but there's no pleasure in false positives. Where is the touch of appreciation? To struggle visually means that windows are better caked. Not cis, nor have I ever been. In the end, I'm content enough choking in the wasteland.

When the lights stop spinning --
Will the lights stop spinning?
This is the crash,
This is the fall,
I'm the water coming back down
Return from orbit and
Breaking old ******* bones
How's that for home?
When the lights stop spinning --
And they will stop spinning.
Gift of immortality in abstract.
No God, no blessing to grant.
Touchdown from orbit,
******* asteroid.
I am the master/pilot,
My body to destroy

To answer your question from earlier with a newfound clarity, we're over. I've been ready to let go, but unable to budge an answer from the woman of such few words. Well, tonight she dropped me, and it's official. She punched my sheet and gave it back for the last time, passing me back into the world without a hurtful word like I'd been her best employee.

What's it going to be like now, as the human slingshot? All the emotions long left to the side return to the hole the skeleton of our dull relationship dug from the dense pulp of my longing body. I'll be a bullet, the smallest pebble, toward a target picked at random.

That's what's called a faulty firing pattern. For all I've tried, the SSRI won't fix my inability to grasp the practice of foresight, so for once I'll have to really think about putting my foot in the door. A road like that leads to nothing but the worst I have to offer, and the worst the world finds it can give in return.

I want to love, but I don't want to date. What is dating? I feel too old, and if you tell me I'm not old by any standard, then I feel like I missed something. I want to love, but I want to do. As I do, I want to meet. And if I never, then that's fine. But I'd rather meet and make the silent hard sell in a moment of the truest definition of fiery, urgent complacency, than pick through peers and lovers like I'm at a thrift store bin.

What I want, is to do what I want, and do what I know I shouldn't do, while sometimes pretending it's this great disaster that I report in writing, type into boxes on screens that lead directly to the people most likely to benefit from hearing about repeated and semi-purposeful crash and burns.

My perpetual hope is that I'll catch lust's throbbing hand so well wrapped around my throat that I'll simply die. That I'll choke and choke until you, whoever you are, break the bones away and choke my lungs with blood. I hope for the spastic gasps that you'll confuse for last breaths, when I'm actually having an ******.

She said, "Hello. You look like ****."
I said, "To what do I owe this. . . this compliment?"
A double whiskey on the house
I said, "Fine with me, I always take the first one free."
"But you've been here all night," she said,
"In fact every single night this week."

Hope stands monstrous in the door
Can't tell if it's as it is or if it's my eyes swimming
Memory's a funny thing, because from what
I remember I never was a drunk
Just everyone on dad and grandpa's side
Cruising all the way up the line

Now, reflection's come to cast
proper shadow 'cross my heart
in clouded mirrors with lights off
I outsmart the faint voice
No hands, ******* in the dark

We got some dead queers here
they're messing up the floor
Too many *****, too many
******* ******* don't get
me started on the trans*
We need to move our cars
and stroll the walk with
ignorant future tagalongs
More than need to care
To say, ******* speak up
We got some dead queers here,
No ******* problem

My mouth tastes like fireworks
Grown with love
Enjoyed with care
Blitz blaze ignite a truth
Obviously there
Watch smoke go drifting
You, too, reach to the sky
Weightless
Wordless
No less a person than the news
Under the influence
Under all things
Matchsticks, boxes, food makes
Mountains in our kitchen
Rot smell, cancerous, foul
Presence in our home
Under the mountain
Insect in flesh
I'm nothing more,
Am I, than under the influence?
It's true. Which celebrities locally
Represent you? Senate, what? Political duress.
Kaitlin Olson, say something poignant
Or in dark we die, speak well, or we'll be Jersey soon
Save me with your confirmed link to God,
Please.

When you get pretty **** high (PDH),
just remember to keep the stove top
dial at 8, just below 8, to keep the oil
of your choice from overheating and
popping into your face. Turn on the
overhead fan and open the nearest
window to ensure ventilation for your
fire detector. Don't be a cigarette and
don't ignite bushes if you can help it.
Remember this when you get PDH:
You're more than a face but you'll get
lost in that possibility for hours if you
forget that your face is such an integral
part of your translation of you to world.
So be with the world. Don't get lost on
your way to and from. Women grab
your ******. Men grab your *****. We're
having a fun time, such a fun time,
yet not really feeling fun. Remember,
meet under streetlight right outside
your room, 12:01. You want the world?
It's apparent. Smoke another bowl why
don't you, it's all over your clothes. You
want the world, don't you? Why don't
you meet me one past midnight, local?
Sell your soul to a red devil for endless
wealth? No. The the the most importa
nt pp aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart
to remem member is that Lucifer loves
you. He is a gentleman, be not afraid.
For you he trades the wealth for free.

That feel when
re-burn fills bowl
Queen/King
out of gold
No clean smoke
No hairy rip
I scavenge
for oasis in glass
ash trays
Expect the soft
kiss and faint
*** sweat of old dreams
but the smoke
blows out and once
more the world shifts
For free

I feel the strands push through my scalp for blue skies
Grow up, grow tall, then steeple palm to palm
Praise the sun! but where's the sun?

Legend says it's there to reach for men with means
If love, if happiness, then just take a grip
Praise the sun! but where's the sun?

Preach goodliness like you've the throat, the road to heaven
Preach to us like you'll sell deviants the verse

Raise the men! but what's a man?
Praise the sun! that never burned.

I'm over. I'm over.
Been over all along.

Objection

Bankrupt blood pulses
and always has through my veins

Objection

Gender-fukt oblivion
alone rises into view

I'll never be the dollar's friend
Paper will not be mine

Objection

Bad upraising
I'll raise up worse