//

The definition of thot [that ** over there], via Urban Dictionary

A woman who pretends to be the type of valuable female commodity who rightfully earns male commitment—until the man discovers that she’s just a cheap imitation of a “good girl” who is good for nothing, and definitely not for relationships or respect.

If women are products, then thots are cheap goods. More than that, they’re knockoffs: low-quality merchandise that attempts to masquerade as luxury items.

They generally dress in cheap clothing, try to act like they're better than they really are, or think they're not ****** but high class when they're nothing close to classy. They demand respect, money, gifts, dates but do nothing to deserve any of it because they have no self-respect, no manners, low self esteem, little education and on top of all that they are thots because they have no self worth.

//

he called me a thot.
the same blood-boy nightmare who bragged about his ******* and double cup. too cheap to buy actavis generics, so he drank himself into a stupor on walgreens brand dye-free cough syrup. he acted black, said words white boys shouldn't have near their mouths. his friends were ableist at the best, and misogynist at worst.

he called other girls thots too.
but i was different. stick-and-poke told trans king who told american spirit who told blood-boy what i confided in a friend. a story that ends and begins with my tears, tears from gagging, tears from telling my mother about the worst three minutes of my life and how my knees and heart hurt afterwards.

i embodied thot.
left my family for friends, joked about the pain until it hurt even more. i found myself crying in bathroom stalls, looking down at my body in the bathtub as i learned to breathe water. the girls said i was thick, i didn't know if they meant it in a good way. the boys said worse. i wore camouflage pants, comme de garçons tops, air force ones. i jumped on trends like a wild cat stalking prey. but i could never catch anything worthwhile with my soft, clawed paws.

he smiled like he was better than me.
after blood-boy stunned summers and winters alike, burned spring and fall, and for what? to call me a thot? i knew what i was to him. but he didn’t define me anymore.

he called me a thot.
and this time i fought back with my eyes, didn’t just sit there and feel words welling up inside.
because even thots are queens.
because i used to be deciduous, but now i’m evergreen.


//

tattooed arm holds a cell phone to her ear,
leans over a garbage can
but like a firefly caught in a spiders web
she still glows,
" hi, linda loveless,"
she tells someone,
buys 6 pack and a lottery ticket.
doubtful pleasure
for sure
but we all have our slot
on the roulette wheel,
red or black,
win or lose,
and sometimes
double zero

from the videos i watched online -
i can truly attest one thing
and one thing alone:
    ars dialecticis est mort -
  i.e. the art of debate is dead;
nietzsche was wrong
in slandering dialectics -
the most civilised societies
allow dialectics -
  there's no point defending
a "freedom of speech"
when there's no discussion to be had.
street preachers excused -
       what's the point of free
speech when there's no
      "freedom" regarding discussion?
there is no art of poetry,
the only supremacy of art is
the art of discussion -
           but since this "art"
is nowhere in the framework of
a revival, why bother?
what's the freedom of talk,
when all it surmounts to is a
blatancy of a placard?!
              dialectics is dead,
it died with socrates -
       what we're receiving is
an echo-chamber of monologue,
point being:
    i don't even know what
the mongolians are trying to
keep up with...
            and when did
cis- become sis-?
              given the examples,
we are shy of the 26 "unique"
encodings of said speech...
                    never did a kettle
breed a cat...
                        we're done debating,
there's no debating,
  there never was a debate to begin
with...
              we're not going
toi debate, because we are so
entrapped in an ultra-individualistic
crap (yes, i will throw custard
at you) -
         what orwell deemed
cogito duplex (double think)
   has morphed into
an uprising of revisionism:
      coetus cogito (group think) -
how did you expect people to
cling on to the bleaching process
of clinging to pronouns,
when these are being usurped?!
         the art of discussion is dead!
dead! dead! dead!
                  with your nag hammadi
christ 2nd resurrection?!
            iconoclasm gave birth
to the death of dialectics -
       we no longer have effective
measures to study a dialogue -
   we only have examples of
a mistrust in monogamy,
and monologue -
                          i see no future
for the art of dialogue -
                  which is why this lost
art strengthens the position
of the ultra monologist: god.
                      we're not having
a discussion, 1 year to 10 years from
now...
         prior to writing, history must
have been written akin
to a phraseology of claustrophobia -
constrictive -
   suffocating -
                 we wrote to gain
intimacy with thought:
instead we gained the intricacy of
intimidation...
                   whether that be by
thought alone, or otherwise...
      prior to writing history
        history was the lessened &
continually lessing observation
deemed worth "observation",
but of course we exfoliated in our
"demands"...
                 besides the point:
the art of discussion is lost -
  since we have established our worth:
to be none other, than,
  a desire for fictitious tales that lead
to no other discovery, other than
a discovery of a cul de sac.
                 no morning with no
cockerel to croak its adhan -
   i'd revive in the anti-pentagram:
an adhan at morn,
              and an adhan as sunset...
  whatever freedom you give -
shame the freedom of speech
  never allowed the revival of dialectics -
but what can expect,
   given that this freedom arose
from a language that abides by no
diacritical desires -
     where no eye to tongue to breath
speak of diacritical markings be said -
hardly a surprise that
  the art of debate be revived...
          seems easier to club a person
dead, than to squire with his
saber i a duel...
       shame, to be honest...
               the lost art of debate,
which makes all subsequent "debates"
on the internet, a superfluous act of
guilty-pleasure procrastination.

Often as adults we question everything where children care blindly without remorse .

The jaded no longer control the meek and we all find our own way somewhere in between.

Nobody has the answers , just a few are far more gifted at selling lies as answers .

We are strangers locked within the same tomb.

Castaways from are truths so we covered ourselves from their lies .

Lost within and somehow standing beside others we have little hope for.

Do we settle for the comfort or embrace the truth to understand all with little to show .

So close even the rejection can be sensed without a word spoken between.


Manipulation with ***** fingernails and dry tears cease to effect the outer shell anymore.

Numb and faded by the games that are played finding that hiding is the best we can do.

Fear of;  the unknown rapes my senses to the point of slamming all doors while painting lamb's blood across the entry.

Hence casting away all menacing shadows of past demons.

This isn't a life, but in being spent, broken, and abused I simply can't afford more than hiding.

Can you?

Whitewashed fences mark
the division of shallow lines
of demarcation marring a bitter plain

Truth that too can be seen
as a balance with bruised knees
whispering prayers of bent supplication

Looking for a smile seen in clouds
of judgment and blurred hazes

The drum beats of life and echoes still,
in cracked addicted alleys of fairness
gone awry with a broken wheel
spinning on a loom of time

Native pains and naive indiscretions inexcusable, earth telling a compelling
tale if you can dig your hand in the dirt

Seeking through the mire for truth
and tales long since buried in the sands
of time, which whisk away history,
books burned with lies full of distaste

Imprinted on impressionable minds
like miscreant clones sprung
from fanatical factories

Indoctrinated with false education
and breeding still more hate, echoing,
listening to the heartstrings playing
a concerto of truth, an aria of sad realism

A beating of a drum
that has long since been silenced
by an oppressive, regressive hand

These times give me fear when courage
is what is needed most, post haste

Hate seems to be in such a fury
hurrying at a madman's pace.

A moment cuffs you in the face
like Newton's overstated apple,
and the evening dissolves
into sharp, steady resolve...
You think about the extra drink you should have drunk,
the song you should have sung
and the man whose touch y so missed...

The Muse had disappeared.
**** Muse.

Every time you try to find news you want to *****,
not just a little, but expel the very core of emptiness out of you,
and you picked a fine time to stop swearing
because there is a man whose feel you have so **** missed...

The stars continue to twinkle across the Northern Sky,  
oblivious to the bouncing of our big Blue Ball,
un-answering dreamful wishes;
though, there are other stars lying closer to your heart,
a fresh start and the barbells below...  
And you realize
life is found in the letting go...

And the Muse reappears, smiles an aching, wondrous, Hello.

Today I felt the urge to fall down a flight of stairs, and when I say fall
I mean,
           jump,
                     plummet
                                   and plunge.

I wanted to feel something, a pain that wasn't already carried within me.

I could imagine the weightlessness I  would have felt as my body relaxed,
how time would have appeared hampered as if altered by my sudden descent.

That numbing pain as each step would buffet my spine and finally the  ominous silence that preludes my last breath while my misery pools around me glistening for all to see.

though sadly...


.             I live in a bungalow