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Akemi Aug 8
less than
the upsurge of bitter bile

yesterday’s failure
rides his chariot
like blank abyss

because what is money for if not love?
and what is money for if not emotional connection?

and every day spurns a tilt
of forgetting why
we’re together at all

“hey dad i think you treat mom like ****”
“what are you talking about remember that time she left you at the mall”
“i don’t see what that has to do with your own personal conduct”
“ask her about it sometime”

why would i ever want to be
spilt tea across the cloth
on a main street in
mise en abyme
south d

“it’s idiots like your mother who are running the world into the ground”
my mother is a stay at home wife.
“hey dad why dont you go into politics you sure say a lot of things”
“nah nobody would listen to me”
Akemi Aug 5
at its own axiomatic level
we begin a dance
a dance
a dance
and there are shades

fly off from the other?

a spindle


we make ourselves a difference
a complexity
an intricate form that spills over and everywhere
and is alive
apart from itself
as if this difference making
were for itself, for our own ego
rather than to pull the other
the other’s difference
pointlessly intricate
motionful machines that well up beyond their own depths and
but the content

a meaningful making
and on and on and

turns on it urns iand urns un n uwuw uwuw uwuuwu wuuwuwuwuwuuwuw

the measure of a drop
is in

everyone dances in their own light

what if satire is all you see!

everything ive ever wanted to say 12 yr old has already fallen out a tree

everybody hold themselves so high and precious
but their own being is only meagre pitiful one space arrow

there is a being
that we strive for
but only ourselves feel
and only others know
yet so many want the other to feel
what they can only know

come grieff and grief and grif

i dont get why anyone cares
we do what we do
and it stupid

why you wanna
let the other in ?

only reason u think they smart
is they aint let u in

so i says let em be  .

everyone all love precarity
cant love themselves
sothey strike out when the other they want to love them for themselves dont love them for themselves

thats an impossibility !


whys all the
make all lie and

why do you care so much about yourself
that you desire the other to see?
you are meagre
you are petty
and that’s all you are.

resentment is thinking otherwise.

nobody cares about your drives!!!!!!!!!!
and the more you think they should
the more they wont!!!!!!!!!!!silly!!!!!!!!!
the togetherness of not-

let people sweep and slide
then drift n loop!

everoy !
neurotic big

t­hen why are peopplr loenly?

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

cherished being in a bridge of light

its own singular yearning
pulls back
the body of marx
and the whole black moon

black moon! black moon!

howls the end
howls the night
simpering spat spat spat spatchooey! cross yarn and tip a spews the thunder
and the back back back of
no where
curses like a shut down whine

are you perfectly everywhere not
this is the only series of questions
in philosophy senpai desu desu bakkkooou!!
goodbue canafly
Aug 3 · 88
cya in canada ver.3
Akemi Aug 3
we make ourselves intricate
to pull the other
but the closer we come
the more we unravel apart?

******* god acid *****
Jun 4 · 213
what you wanted
Akemi Jun 4
light and concrete
night imperceptibly folds
and all the futures that never came
set a throwaway polaroid
from the other’s light

distance is definition
and closeness a fleeting blur
melancholia lives in the death of nothing
Akemi Jun 3
and where do you live?
body of water and smoke
to ride the empty street
cardboard and tongue and plastic and puke
distant dying light.

it’s like
there’s nobody here
a veritable ghost town
where pavement walks itself
and measured stares meet glances
in amorous disgust.

here’s the coffee
here’s the break
here’s the *******
here’s the waterfront
hurried pace through the centre of
the empty body of god.

why don’t they all just die?
most of the time
nothing makes sense.

seagulls make a point of avoiding eye contact
they pretend like they’re not pretending to not see you.

absence shapes presence.
Jun 3 · 459
the year of sleep
Akemi Jun 3
its a long waste of time
here’s the fire
here’s the two hour film
here’s the empty tract you spill your money in
yesterday returns
the same stupid wake and a body like mindless *******
enjoy your repetition
or live in misery
why enjoy when you can die
nobody answers
nobody says a ******* thing but
enjoy your repetition
enjoy your repetition
like an idiot caucus in automation

a mass shooting happened four hours from town
on the night of the wake
a vaporwave gig opened to an audience of fashion designers and other rich art *****
down the road
club music blared a bloated corpse to drunk faces
and in the centre
wilted flowers for the victims.
timeless return is the terror of the letter
a year of sleep in unbearable trauma
the other’s dying light.
Jun 3 · 97
frail horizons
Akemi Jun 3
it’s further and further and
you won’t last
bitter peak flows black water
May 7 · 186
ii: apocrypha
Akemi May 7
We dream in highways and landslides, miss the bus and walk the industrial zone, rusted barrels and weeds through the milk carbon whine of gutted machinery. I wear last decade’s dress, all black and splayed hollow; you, the ostentation of a formless pullover. You reach into your pocket — the last smoke before you quit, so you say — climb the graves of primary industry and exhale a microcosm of pitch.

We don’t speak for days. Years of wasting, ******* on churches, and the emptiness of night walks. I don’t *** because I hate endings and you depart to whatever next fix won’t sort you out. It’s a dreary waste of time and we both know it, but we move in circles before an abyss, growing wretched until nothing remains but traces of a vibrancy we’d never had.

After you depart, I mould myself a simulacrum of you. Time slows. I lose touch with my surroundings. Piles form. The imminent dissolves like sugar, like scent on the clothes you left. I find your pullover from months back and it clings like water. And it smells like negative space. And it covers me completely.
You return in gasps and nightmares; disconnected images, never happenings, the opaque ***** of night terrors. It’s prophetic: you, an oneiric haunt, and me, a paralytic. It’s the perfect summation of a fear of contact. It’s modern terror. While I can’t reach you, you remain.
Akemi Mar 5
a swelling pocket of fat
over and over
the tongue shifts left and right
some nervous gag
other cascade
where nobody says a thing

well what do you give?

an open palm
a sick stupid wreath
under bath water breathing in half water half air water recedes rises up backwards head recedes as background element neck bone recedes as background element headless corpse motions forward head arrives as foreground element
Akemi Feb 3
the path to love is elsewhere
surface folds create the illusion of depth
in a fully mutable system

this is you
roving and roiling
on your open palm

an offer of lack
in lieu of fulfilment
Akemi Jan 25
infantile death spectrum
blood is litter is
carry on and other unassailable tears
wretched vacuous laughter
the open infinite connect
i choke and choke and choke
and nothing sits right

some eyes hold myths deeper than god

i'm afraid
would you expect otherwise?

petty indifferent me
Jan 25 · 583
distancing, irrevocable
Akemi Jan 25
there’s a gulf
how i mistook it
eyes turned
you lost in that cruelty
if only for a moment.
how pathetic and petty and wretched

to close my eyes in the light of gentleness
Jan 24 · 134
empty modern
Akemi Jan 24
light barred
through your drifting reach
i’m trying and trying and ******* up

if i could
i’d take in all your frailties
and break

but things would only get worse
Akemi Jan 24
life seemed safe
stab yourself
the harbour would be a nice place to die
if these ******* couples would just leave
leave me the **** alone
my resentment is my resentment is split the city in two and ride your body through hell
some people carry bukowski never read and spill their emptiness into the world
what do you do?
sleep and sleep until everything is worse
everyone is moving moving moving
there is the new bloom
tiqqun staged anew
Akemi Jan 8
i’m just not sure what you expected
wasting through the flesh of your palm
as if some invariant nightmare was worth chasing
right through your ******* palm

******* distraction
don’t pretend you’re worth anything
you know, i'm starting to think buddhism was right.
and that my psychoanalysis friend was right.
there is no intersubjectivity, no reciprocity.
whatever two desires you thought came together, was nothing but a misapprehension of the situation. you read your own desire in the other, and they read their own desire in you, and you both spent your worthless time together, thinking you were a match, slowly burrowing your expectations into one another's flesh, like stupid idiot worms trying to find a home, but instead making holes.
and then when your expectations fail you, you blame the other, when really you should blame yourself for ever expecting anything.
Jan 4 · 2.7k
Acid and Lost Time
Akemi Jan 4
The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

You arrive a tight knot of anxieties over a moment in time that could only have arrived after its departure. The Ache welcomes you into their sparse interior. You trace last month’s 21st across the black mould complex; navigate piles of stacked boxes, unsure if anything is inside of them.

“I always make the best friends in departure,” the Ache says, flipping a plushy up and down by the waist.

“Maybe you can only love that which is already lost,” you reply, with an insight a friend will give you a week later.

The acid tastes bitter under your tongue. Small marks your body bursting, a glowing radiance of interconnections you’d always had but only now begun to feel. The Ache follows suit and you sit on the couch together to watch .hack//Legend of the Twilight. The come up entangles you in the spectacle; the screaming boy protagonist, the chipped tooth gag, the moe sister in need of saving from the liminal space of dead code. You take part in it; you revel in it. Bodies morph on the surface of the screen in hyperflat obscenity, their parts interchangeable to the affect of the drama. Faces invert, break and disfigure, before reformation into the self-same identity form.

A month earlier, you’d hosted a house show at your flat. Too anxious to perform you’d dropped a tab as you’ve done now. An overbearing sensation of too-much-ness — of sickening reality — washed through the nexus of your being. You writhed on the ground screaming into a microphone as a cacophony of sounds roiled through you. Everyone cheered.

The floor rose later that night. A damp, disgusting intensity that triggered contractions in your throat and chest. Pulled to the ground, you fought off your bandmate’s advances, too shocked to express your revulsion and horror, to react accordingly, to reconstitute a border of consensual sociality. You broke free and slurred “I’m no one’s! I’m no one’s!” before running out of the room. Hours later, you tried to comfort them. Weeks later, you realised how ******* ******* that had been. Months later, you learnt their friend had committed suicide days before the show.

Back in the lounge, a prince rides onto the screen on a pig. You turn to the Ache and say “This is ******* awful.”

The Ache responds “I know right?”

Outside the world burns blue with lustre. The Ache trails you and falls onto their stomach. “Oh my god,” the Ache blurts, “this is why I love acid. Everything just feels right.” They gaze wistfully at the grasses and flowers before them; catch a whiff of asphalt and nectar, intermingled. “Like, gender isn’t even a thing, you know? Just properties condensed into a legible sign to be disciplined by heteronormative governmentality.”

“Properties! Properties!” You chant, stomping around the Ache with your arms stretched out. You wave them in the air like windmills. You bare your teeth. “Properties! Properties!”

“You know what I mean, right?” The Ache asks, pointedly. “You know what I mean?”

You continue chanting “Properties!” for another minute or two, before spotting a slug on a blade of grass beneath your feet. You fall to your knees and gasp “It’s a slug!”

You and the Ache stare at the tiny referent for an indefinite period of time, absorbed in its glistening moistures. Eventually, the Ache says “I think it’s actually a snail.”

You used to read postmodern novels on acid. You loved their exploration of hyperreality; their dissection of culture as a system of meaning that arises out of our collective, desperate attempts to overcome the indifference of facticity. Read symptomatically, culture does not reveal unseen depths in the world, but rather, constitutes shallow networks of sprawling complexity — truth effects — illusions of mastery over an, otherwise, undifferentiated and senseless becoming.

Then one day, the world overwhelmed you. Down the hall, your flatmates sounded an eternal return. As they spoke in joyous abandon you traced the lines from their mouths — found their origin in idiot artefacts of Hollywood Babylon. The joy of abstraction you once relished in your books took on an all too direct horror. You recoiled. You bound your lips in hysteria, for fear of becoming another repeating machine of an all too present culture industry. Better dumb than banal — better to say nothing at all, than everything that already was and would ever be. You cried and cried until everyone left — until you were alone with your silence and your tears and your nonexistent originality.

Dusk falls in violet streaks. You reach your room on the second floor of the building, open the bedside window and stick your legs out into a cool breeze. The Ache joins you. Danny Burton, the local MP, arrives in his van, his smiling bald face plastered on its side like an uncanny double enclosing its original.

“Hey look, it’s Danny Burton, the local MP.” Danny Burton turns his head. He glares at your dangling feet for a few seconds before entering his house. “You know, this is the first time in three years he’s looked at me and it’s at the peak of my degeneracy.” You turn to the Ache. “One of my favourite past times is watching him wander around the house at night, ******* and unsure of himself. He always goes to check on his BBQ.” You bounce on the bed in mania.

“See this is what people do, right?” the Ache says, mirroring your excitement. “Like, look at that lady walking her dog.” The Ache motions, with a cruel glint in their eyes, to the passerby on the fast dimming street. “What do you think she gets out of that? Doing that every night?” Without waiting for you to respond, the Ache answers, in a low, sarcastic tone “I guess she gets enjoyment. Doing her thing. Like everyone else.” The lady and the dog disappear beyond the curve of the road. Another pair soon arrives, taking the same path as the one before.

A few months back, you’d met an old friend at an exhibition on intersectional feminism. After the perfunctory art, wine and grapes, she drove you home, back to your run down flat in an otherwise bourgeois neighbourhood. She sat silent as the sun set before the dashboard, then asked how anyone could live like this; how anyone could stand driving out of their perfect suburban home, at the same time every morning, to work the same shift every day, for the rest of their stupid life. The dull ache of routine; the slow, boring death. You said nothing. You said nothing because you agreed with her.

“Life began as self-replicating information molecules,” you reply, obliquely. “Catalysis on superheated clay pockets. Repetition out of an attempt to bind the excess of radiant light.”

It is dark now; a formless hollow, pitted with harsh yellow lamps of varying, distant sizes. The Ache flips onto their stomach and scoffs “What’s that? We’re all in this pointless repetition together?”

You respond, cautiously “I just don’t think that being smart is any better than being stupid; that our disavowed repetitions are any worthier than anyone else’s.”

The Ache returns your gaze with an intensity you’ve never seen before. “Did I say being smart was any better? Did I say that? Being smart is part of the issue. There is no trajectory that doesn’t become a habitual refrain. When you can do anything, everything becomes rote, effortless and pointless.

“But don’t act as if there’s no difference between us and these ******* idiots,” the Ache spits, motioning into the blackness beyond your frame. “I knew this one guy, this complete and utter ****. We went to a café, and he wouldn’t stop talking about the waitress, about how hot she was, how he wanted to **** her, while she was in earshot, because, I don’t know, he thought that would get him laid.

“Then we went for a drive and he failed a ******* u-turn. He just drove back and forth, over and again. A dead, automatic weight. A car came from the other lane, towards us, and waited for him to finish, but he stopped in the middle of the street and started yelling, saying **** like, ‘what does this ******* want?’ He got out of his car, out of his idiot u-turn, and tried to start a fight with the other driver — you know, the one who’d waited silently for him to finish.”

You don’t attempt a rebuttal; you don’t want to negate the Ache’s experience. Instead, you ask “Why were you hanging out with this guy in the first place?”

The Ache responds “Because I was alone, and I was lonely, and I had no one else.”

It is 2AM. Moths dance chaotic across the invisible precipice of your bedside window, between the inner and outer spaces of linguistic designation. There is a layering of history here — of affects and functions that have blurred beyond recognition — discoloured, muted, absented.

In the hollow of your bed, the Ache laughs. You don’t dare close the distance. Sometimes you find the edges of their impact and trace your own death. All your worries manifest without content. All form and waver and empty expanse where you drink deeply without a head. Because you have lost so much time already. And nothing keeps.

Months later, after the Ache has left, you will go to the beach. You will see the roiling waves beneath crash into the rocky shore of the esplanade, a violence that merges formlessly into a still, motionless horizon, for they are two and the same. You will be unable to put into words how it feels to know that such a line of calm exists out of the pull and push of endless change, that it has existed long before your birth and will exist long after your death.

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.
“Self-destruction is simply a more honest form of living. To know the totality of your artifice and frailty in the face of suffering. And then to have it broken.”
Dec 2018 · 1.2k
the city is a factory
Akemi Dec 2018
i don’t know what i want but i don’t want this
naked and strewn on your porsche
teens make do with driving off cliffs
and i think they’re better for it

it takes character to lose your mind
well i’ve been trying so ******* hard
because weakness is better than strength
if this is your perfect function

and i don’t want to be like you
and i don’t want to be like you
all blanket and empty beneath
like a smile you learn to identify with

give me my ******* pay check
i’ll crash beneath your house
and burn like wildfire
Dec 2018 · 195
a situationist nightmare
Akemi Dec 2018
******* wear me like a dead weight
well you won’t turn off your stupid head
waking on and on that wretched machine
abundance down the drain

it’s all garbage
it’s all claim and make claim
the last breath of a long dead system
that carries on without thought

gimme another song
i don’t want it
gimme along the road nowhere
i don’t want
i don’t want a **** thing
i’ll wait and wait and wait for your stop
you fill me with nothing

stagger and reproduce
it’s how you survive

every day the newest car drives past my window
and i puke
Dec 2018 · 1.0k
body shrinks beneath itself
Akemi Dec 2018
they made a hollow in your head
a place to die
over and again

all the impatience of the years
come close

where i will never find myself again
save in photos
and dead repeats
so dad told me mum has dementia.
Nov 2018 · 4.6k
Black Box Idiot Cult
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.


Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”


Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”


“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
Nov 2018 · 937
headless materialism
Akemi Nov 2018
on and on and on
stupid machines
speak past one another
an automated stupor

brain ****** bourgeoisie
incapable of escaping
their own idiot refrain

demented on chop
and immanence

a closed horizon
i just had one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

i was hanging with a friend, when a bunch of their flatmate's friends came in and started smoking chop. i took a hit and immediately sunk into my own body. i receded into an expansive, empty space. from this blackness, i could hear a conversation taking place between the flatmate's friends, over and over, each repeat a perfect automation of the prior -- the exact same words, intonations and pauses -- an endless cycle amongst human machines.

guattari talks of existential refrains: collective socio-cultural habits, that constitute one's subjectivity. trapped in the stultifying capitalist machine, one becomes a miniature automaton to the processes one enacts in daily existence. one's consciousness mirrors the rote, repetitive banality of capitalist existence. one becomes as mindless as the instruments one utilises and the commodities one produces and consumes.

here, in this endless loop, subjectivity reformed its own constitutive stasis. headless life grasped forgotten familiarity unto demented stability, the same boring story no one cared enough about to respond to, so it was repeated, over and over, to the same response. a dead, stupid machine speaking to other dead, stupid machines.

and from what i could pick up, these were bourgeoisie, property-owners and managers, cosmopolitan rulers of the world. these dumb ******* were the ones running the world into the ground.

i finally understood why my friend was so misanthropic and why she was leaving this hellhole. too ****** from the chop, all i could do was go out into the rain, clutch my friend's arm, and gape at the clouds. i've never been so terrified for a friend, and so utterly crushed at the state of the world.

worst of all, i'm not sure if any of this even happened. the chop may have sent me into a psychotic state. perhaps, i simply experienced a normal conversation, and all conversations are this horrifying. or perhaps, i did meet drugfucked bourgeois machines.

i don't know.
Nov 2018 · 223
love without illusions
Akemi Nov 2018
worn out alone
three years a headless drone through feverish lights
endless tunnel
ouroboros burning pavement
the whole ******* drive

make me whole with your absence
i’ll burn my lungs through and through
and wear the scent of your clothes till there’s nothing left
but radiant waste
of course you love her
the neurotic can only love that which has already disappeared
and forsaken ambivalence
Nov 2018 · 524
proust the imposter
Akemi Nov 2018
never wanted to feel a thing
blunt my skin on the door frame
sink through my sheets

an open mouth for candescence
friends you lose touch with
acid and lost time
because it hurts to feel anything
so wear yourself detached
lose everyone
Akemi Nov 2018
the rot that filled your lungs
three years without breath
sinking to the floor.

people you love
without knowing why.

because it hurts to be near
like some divide
searching for heat in open summer.

an outline without interior.
i missed you before you'd even left.
Nov 2018 · 124
Akemi Nov 2018
slow burn through the frame
you shrink with every breath
laughing in your sleep.
Akemi Nov 2018
I have to use words sparingly now. Things used to be different. Before surfaces there was depth. Before identities there was self. Words go into words; wasted breath, white noise, mute hum.

We camped beneath the stars ten billion summers ago, the park down from your house. We fed the horses with grasses we picked, our hands soft with dew and lust.

I miss every inch of your being. I miss your wretched shadow spun lugubrious in Sisyphian recurrence. The slow burn of your love as it fled black char, the whole ******* forest dead.

I’m sick of spitting smoke, but words elude me. I lack the form of your departure. I’ve been trying to flee for years and now it’s happened. I’ll die astride the world immaterial and worthless.

What’s holy is dead. I swallowed it up with the branches that lay beneath you the day we kissed in the forest after school. The last trace of eternity passing into myth.

Eternity passing in a moment.
I wrote about you so many times I became a Lacanian. Every cut a new formation. Because I never truly wanted to be rid of you. I just wanted to forget my compulsions. So I could discover you anew. So I could discover you elsewhere.
Akemi Oct 2018
blind bliss
the empty contour of yesterday
turns on itself

jets to oblivion
paper streams celebrate
the century’s end

thus piled
at the foot of the terminal
a mound of teeth

and convalescence in search of illness.
all the hollow men
search for gold
in the horizon

new markets for a growth
that reward the richest

insatiable thirst to fill what cannot be filled.


to survive under capitalism
the bourgeoisie must make a profit
through the exploitation of new resources, labourers and markets
the opening of new industries
which attract further investors
until the industry becomes bloated
and competition drives the price of the commodities they produce so low
that the market is flooded with too many goods for consumers to purchase

in this irrational excess
artificial scarcity is deployed
which amounts to the destruction of commodities
like the pouring of butter into a pit in the ghettos of britain
as starving families watch without comprehension
because its more economically viable to destroy what can't be sold
than to give it away
because then where would your consumers be?

we live in a world of abundance
that is kept from us
for the sake of profit

because once a commodity is free, it's worthless
and so are we
Akemi Oct 2018
Three tabs of acid and a year of postmodern novels will ******* up in a shorter span of time than doing a degree in poststructuralism, and only an idiot with a death wish would do both. Manic romp to reach nowhere in a political field that never arrives, except in France.

Well Sartre once said nothing, and so did Derrida, and so did Baudrillard. Endless procession of words for the sake of filling a vacuum that didn’t exist until it was filled. Enter Freud; exit Bernays. All meaning atop a Golden Bough.

Sitting in your flatmate’s room the acid kicks in and suddenly no one is themselves, every line that leaves their mouths traceable to a media product, the perfect communion of pluralism arriving as the terror of integral capitalist banality. To speak is to add to the mockery; to say nothing is to let the mockery continue.

Forget it all by watching Youtube videos at 0.25x speed. Displace the terror of your own situation through the consumptive behaviour that had constituted it in the first place. Watch in gleeful delight as the eyes of whatever presenter happens to be on the screen at the moment dart between this or that object of desire, ever unsure of where to settle amongst an infinite number of existential refrains, none of which deliver from the anxiety of the prior.

Holding a caramel slice in the departmental tea room, your lecturer waits for you to respond, but all you manage is a cough.
Sep 2018 · 2.1k
acid reflex
Akemi Sep 2018
lay low
make yourself a nervous fit
imperfect replication

here no one’s happy
staring down narrow paths
burning out the cells
lining their guts

words are worthless.
slow subsumption into academia, narrow tract, staring past the shoulder of every colleague, ten page manuscript of Foucault, perfect distillation of praxis into pure theory, words on a page, exploit the exploiters by using their vouchers at the mexican restaurant down the road, get what you can out of this ****** institution, on non-tenured, precarious part time labour, planning a 30 part lecture series in the weekend because these ******* ******* need their half a million in salaries while all the understaffed lecturers suffer, i ******* hate this place, these ******* managerial ******* ******* **** ******* **** **** ****
Akemi Aug 2018
out of arms
out of lungs
out of head
it’s an effort to be dragged
catch beneath the lock
where i tore my lid three years ago
each descent returning
spit from the cavernous body of marx

an empire of glass
the wretched of centre city
mop the open wound of 24/7 affairs
*** and grease stained upholstery
apologising for everyone else's mess

it’s blasé-faire
it’s pro-choice
corporate megaphone through the airwaves
distilled into the perfect idiot subject
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life :)
the happiness industry would have you believe that all the ills of the world will be solved through positive thinking :))
Akemi Aug 2018
like smoke
you drift apart

its a sad old cliche
your braided hair
in the glare of sunlight
to obliterate

i hadnt looked in years
i hadnt looked in years
but there you were
caught in my mind
loved without remorse
or so i wished.
Aug 2018 · 506
Akemi Aug 2018
just apart
refusing to exist

no media
no touch

erring the side
catching the wreck
this double standard won’t survive
so what’s the point?

the closest cliff is a ride away
how dare you theorise depression as a form of resistance
too worthless to leave the house, too anxious to engage with lecturers, too tired to do assignments -- if this is resistance to neoliberalism then id rather ******* die
Jul 2018 · 479
Akemi Jul 2018
I will not stand by while abuse happens
six months of cyclical hell
the push and pull of your desire

this issue has never been singular
confined to some imaginary private space
in the public view of us all
using your circumstances to justify
the victimisation of another
to the point of collapse

the coloniser builds a fort
because they're afraid
of their own violent mirror-image
projected into the landscape

do you recognise
i'd always thought playing the victim was a term the right used to discredit survivors of ****, but it actually arose out of victim narratives of abusive relationships, where the abuser would posit themselves as the real victim, even as they persecuted the other with emotional blackmail, gaslighting and violence.

this all makes me ******* sick.
Akemi Jul 2018
sometimes a pit
gazing inchoate
smiling past it all

inès passes the mirror
a smouldering black shape

today i looked at no one

tomorrow i’ll arrive.
che vuoi?

but people keep returning i look away frigid frightened caught in an inescapable duration
people i knew or know or want to know
shrinking in the corner like bellows lungs the sounds of buildings collapsing in reverse
one day it'll be better worse you smell like cigarettes you smell like process irrevocable.
Jul 2018 · 272
Plastic Death
Akemi Jul 2018

Staid quanta of individuality. Phenom asks if they can go. The Big Mouth replies, babble babble. In a fit of rage, Phenom shouts, I’ve had enough of this. They wrench themselves off the dissection table, fetters flying into the air, but a sudden bout of vertigo sets in. They lie back down. The Big Mouth sticks a thermometer into their mouth and begins heating a can of corn soup.

Professor Kippotkin takes the stage. She coughs into the mic to quiet the audience, but they are caught in sordid *******. She coughs again, managing only to project a trail of spit onto the shoulder of the nearest security guard. He turns immediately, a perfect ninety-degrees spin, automatically signalling the first in command. He has been trained since seventeen for this one task of momentous disciplinary precision. The first in command bellows, Let her speak! a phrase his colleagues repeat in serial down the chain of command.

The crowd soon catches on. An isolated few nod in consternation. Let her speak! they yell from the pits of their lungs, Let her speak!

Thank you, thank you all, Professor Karlpoppins exclaims, cheeks flush with amazement. More and more of the crowd join in. It is a rousing spectacle, a poignant display of human decency. But something is awry. The professor’s gratitude is swallowed into a cacophonous whole. Let her speak! The carnal grip of the big Other’s command unleashes the crowd’s jouissance. United in the master discourse, the crowd fragments into a bewildered totality. Let her speak! they scream at one another, arms jostling, heads tilting back, necks bared to the beating pulse of the earth-sky. LET HER SPEAK! Their combined blows begin to generate an ominous om.

Pl-please, Professor Kibbiezsche sputters, please, everyone! but the crowd have already forgotten her existence. Reams of toilet paper fly through the air. A crashing plane sounds in the distance. Crops burn.

The security team are forced to intervene. They close in from the sides, wielding riot shields and tear gas. HYPOCRITES! one of the members of the crowd screams. OPPRESSORS OF THE WORD! another follows. Footage of security guards flailing on the ground circulate on social media, tagged with the phrase WHO SPEAKS MY SPEAK?

Within twenty four hours, the whole country is ablaze with media coverage. Political scientists gather with literary scholars to speak the unspeakable into commercially-viable forms. Semiotext(e) sign a deal with Hollywood to write a docudrama about Baudrillard’s turbid *** life. Professor Kubblebutts is flown to Hawaii to give a speech on combine harvesters.

I desire, therefore I am not. Incantation of the other spills through my greasy fingers as I fumble towards the hot sauce, dollop dollop, chicken salt strewn across the nommy wedges. That’ll be $4.50. They have already handed me the note. Our fingers touched for the briefest second, an anointment of the greasy chicken, the wedge fingers, the have a good night mister gurgle bop.

The taxi man sits outside in the cold, back heated by the friction of the smoothie machine, an indefinite spin, western civilisation’s meltdown. The turgid heat breezes past my neck and I sigh, almost in delight, but mostly out of convention and solidarity with the other workers. I hear the pitter pat of my shiftpanion as she scoops hot chips into the fresh night; it is so fresh, there is still so much night, why are you giving me $5 dollars, there is a bug on your face.

I take a break. The cool taxi man glances over just as I put my hands down my pants to shift my boxers into a more comfortable why is it always like this.

Everyone blames Foucault for destroying agency, but agency only arises in the gap between discourses, which is never a gap in power, but rather, the transversal of one power relation into the discursive matrix of another; what appears original is merely the same performance in the wrong site, that’ll be $24 for your **** and condoms.

The crumbled fish is shrinking with each passing day, little gasping body beneath the heat lamp, waffle waffle, waffle waffle, I am suffocating :)

|||||FEeling BOLD? FeEL BOldbous ;;;; new Paracetamol Jelly and the KINK-CATS tour out the last week—
Thank you for holding. Please note this conversation may be recorded.
To continue, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
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||"my voice confirms my identity"
Please note that this conversation is being recorded for the purposes of confirming your identity.

Slowly, slowly, Juniper sinks into the bed frame, the draughty window, the rotting sink. Hibiscus coveted for its prophetic dreams, pale steam smites nostalgia for a vision of the beyond. Streamlined entry into New World, an endless reshelving of family-value Mi Goreng, stormwater through the hollow vessels that twist beneath Juniper’s soles.

Juniper climbs the Garden steps. Pale trace of past motions set to automate at the slightest incline. The cloying rot beneath the pines pulls her closer and closer to the vital cache, the hidden excess. Another hedgehog climbs the mound; it admits its body, it expands in putrefaction.

Exiting onto the street, Juniper is greeted by a sign that reads “Caution. Night Shooting. Stay Out.”

Steam creeps the mouth of the lid. Pallid flesh of yesterday’s body, settles the kitchen table, the hand, as motes crumple beneath gravity’s well. Mottled refuse, tied with a plastic ribbon, thrown into the street. Keys digging trenches, grandfather, the hollow behind my knee.

Last summer I waited for the rain in the dry concrete channel of the Leith. I was alone with the kayaks and the road cones and the fish, holes festering, showing their ribs in the walls of our flat, legs spread wearing high school sweaters, unable to breathe through cling wrap.

The summer before that, I watched films of myself bashing in the heads of strangers. Every night the ceiling of my mouth would transfigure into a doorway and I’d force my tongue through its serrated edges, waking with a new face. The cassettes would arrive soon after, testimonies of a brute physicality I could not remember enacting.

Earth grins, death strides. Hydraulic incisors pry the dead awake. At the smallest unit of life: phones, condoms, water bottles.
a piece i wrote for a zine

a piece
headed towards demise

ouroboros in its last desperate gasp

collab with
Jul 2018 · 163
a wretched joke
Akemi Jul 2018
i think we lost the world
decades ago.
a new innovation every year
a new innovation every year
a new innovation every year
a new innovation every

ive been losing my ability to talk
it began slowly
first when i learnt about marxism
the unspeakable irrationality of the market
a future automated to the point of economic crash
the mistakes at the top by those impartial actors
bailed out by the state
because **** the rest

i have lost my tongue
these words come out a stilted mess
second i learnt about feminism
a slow descent into western enlightenment humanism
more properly called white male privilege
more recently called the alt-right
displacement of all abject terror into a projective mockery
abasement of all cultural difference
outside critique folded into the term censorship
their own censorship labelled as transgression
the death of dialectical exchange

and before all that
the ecological crisis
when i was still a naive liberal doing a zoology degree
sitting in the library every evening
feeling a deepening resentment towards everything and everyone around me
catastrophic global warming
the cessation of all life
the automated slaughter of millions
rationalised through the same rhetoric as racism and sexism
more commonly called speciesism
thinking more and more that the most wretched species on the planet
was human beings

i dont know where im going with any of this
i dont know where i am
these words dont come easily anymore

the more i learn about the world
the harder it gets to say anything
because beyond outrage
there is silence
and a deepening feeling that nothing we do will change anything
that we’ve past the point of no return and are heading inexorably towards
death bigotry fascism patriarchy genocide war drone strikes corporate manslaughter **** transphobia terf ******* annihilation of the other platform capitalism self-regulating automatons caught in the iron cage of instrumental rationality all selves constructed through social media hegemony elevator pitch self-reflexive death of corporeality the transfiguration of the entire human species into scopophilic nightmare celebrities cramming their faces with photo-perfect steak dinners spouting anti-pc fascist ******* about how queers have never had it better and that blacks should just stop being born in poor socioeconomic environments and just work harder whilst juggling a part-time job and care work that this is the best economic system we've ever had as power shifts irrevocably into fewer and fewer hands total institution of society backhanded disdain towards any collective politics whilst reposting the same ******* reactionary memes everyone else in their collective (non)-identity group has shared where do we go? what’s left to reclaim to built to move towards mired in regressive politics the meandering subject of left politics trapped in the media apparatus of capital myself included too anxious too wretched mouth filled with cotton the tightening pull of knowing too much in an ever increasingly alienating academic jargon poststructuralist ******* that i love but am incapable of explaining where do i go? what am i doing? what the **** is happening?

there’s no way out of this
Jul 2018 · 136
an endless staircase
Akemi Jul 2018
i arrive
fragmentary trajectories
polyvocal mass

burning assemblage of resentment
walking to the kitchen to grab an apple
leave me alone

i lock the door
i eat my apple
i feel no guilt

panoptic father
you know

we tried
with the counter
the indexical signs of worth
the grade average
you let fall

three years is too long
to watch the same *******
to provide multiple outs
you didn’t want
except the one who was
never enough

i’m done with feeling
if we’re never enough for you
maybe you should find somebody else.
Jun 2018 · 239
Akemi Jun 2018
arduous spite
the day they laid the brickwork
and two hundred staff
we settled on the ocean’s floor
belly up like BP
too young to know
our exams had taken place
in a house of straw
<< the bridge’s broken tarmac >>
<< the oil in the empty lot >>
<< the student suicides >>

putrid crust of the imago
machinic repetition of the same
transferable capital
May 2018 · 238
babylon 999
Akemi May 2018
spoke through the fire
we rode babylon 999
like school children making for the intersection
a horn blared
triumphant screech of capital
and we tumbled through the air
the last image reflected in our eyes
coca-cola no sugar

at the horizon of sleep
the empty palm of war stretches indefinitely
a profit-margin rounding the ennui of
all our profane martyrs and saints

history wreathed in the thorns of labour
the mistletoe we ****** beneath
putrid, damp, abject
mirror-images of our parents

and under the skylight of the mall
i found in you a whistling hole
where all the birds caught within
the dead spaces, the lacunae, the interstices; the lies of flight, the coded circuits, the fascism of totality; we fell into one another as the sun died, our teeth crumbling like concrete through city hollows, the dying moments of a future we never had; stolen dreams of necrophilic capital; so we ****** in the burning wreckage of a hundred dollar car, and wished the bourgeoisie of this world to hell, ******* hell, ******* hell.
May 2018 · 198
Akemi May 2018
fly mouthed
the toppled past
rope through my grip.

Mar 2018 · 347
a mosaic
Akemi Mar 2018
ive been finding it hard to place myself
lapses of concentration
intentions dissipating in the moment of execution
staring into the root directory of my computer
unable to figure out where to go

i found something in sans soleil
a wandering drift of memories replicated in the sleepless dead
the empty motions of an enervated nation
at the brink of collapse
there are billions of images on the internet viewing themselves
self learning algorithms fleeing their creators original intentions
forums and chat rooms filled with bots speaking to one another
more engaged than those around us
dog tired from work or uni
or the latest disney repeat

[star wars 8 was ok
until disney forcefully reinscribed both rey and kylo back into their respective positions in the political binary
because i swear that entire film was about the alienation and destitution of youth on BOTH the liberal left and alt right
self-destructive masculinity overcome through a feminist ethos of care BELL HOOKS BELL HOOKS BELL HOOKS
utterly gutted by the need for a violent spectacle of liberal militarism THE WAR ECONOMY ISNT IT BAD as disney continues funding american imperialism behind the scenes
but hey it was entertaining right?]
Feb 2018 · 470
Akemi Feb 2018
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a *******. i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
we fear the silence because it signifies nothing eyes turned in the moment of contact the nauseating fear che vuoi what do you desire what do you ******* want from me slippage between words and words and words endless barrage what do you want what do you desire without origin arising at the edge of chaos between being and nothing what do you eyes turned to the wall fingers fidgeting no purpose no purpose no end
Feb 2018 · 287
a lapse in the mirror
Akemi Feb 2018
will you mark the    bridge on your passing    stanislaw catching in the eddy beneath    where i came apart    water circling into the sky    i was    somewhere else in the ether    alone    beneath a great canvas of static    vacuum    a cosmic blot of existence    what have you    lost in the canals of mars
slipped slipped slipped.

[early astronomers spent years of their lives mapping out the canals of mars, a sure sign that there was once flowing water on the planet, and therefore, life. unbeknownst to them, the canals were nothing but the vessels of their eyes, reflected upon the lenses of their telescopes.]
Akemi Feb 2018
iv 5-2-18

wrest the black tang the cosmic vacuum of background static and an ungainly dream of walking down a mountain path with my father we descend the silent belly of campus seats filled with mounted bodies lolling the inside stench anna walks ahead of me her voice cuts the waking body of midnight shuttles a hydroponic plant and the sparse parking lot of a supermarket radiating cold.

the fright, the nervous flesh, the stuttered pace of cars, the empty lot, the empty hour, the empty admission of make-belief, collapsing into precession at the peak of worthlessness.

ii 22-1-18

An endless stream, the back of an apartment block, fingers twine across the powder red of brick and sunlight.

I try to catch a glimpse of myself in her eyes, but beyond recognition there is nothing.

I see my father behind a sliding door. He moves further into the kitchen to take pictures from a tripod.

Clothes litter the ground. Nothing fits.

iii 4-2-18

the cracked linen STOP the momentary arrogance STOP the surfacing violence STOP the weathering STOP

A YELL torpid stultifying CRASH cruel ******* trace of the same

and all i can do is shrink as green tea soaks the tablecloth.

i 31-1-17

The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human.
annalowell 2.23: gaps between stages of light
Akemi Feb 2018
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.

Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the

In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.

i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery

THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk


Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.

the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
In this catastrophically worthless point of my life I find myself intersected by my failure to sustain a relationship, my alienation from left-wing collective politics, and my consumption of Faulkner and Ligotti, unto the birth of self-destructive pessimism.
Jan 2018 · 1.7k
body politik
Akemi Jan 2018
skew the weight
the empty chalice
the worthless promise of something
crash! herein we find ourselves trapped between
mangled flesh
and choking light.
Jan 2018 · 281
being is a hollow body
Akemi Jan 2018
Where am I? Choking tilt of the earth, forfeit of the sun. Tomorrow will be as today, a precession in retrospect, an nth masquerade in relapse.
All has been said.
Jan 2018 · 247
An exit without a passage.
Akemi Jan 2018
This is the passing. Traffic stop at the end of the block, where the gutter flows back onto the asphalt, and every split in the road overflows.

Do you remember the day we left? It was the end of Summer. It always is.

We closed the door and felt the world shrink. I reached for your face and found nothing but the surface of a mirror.

It stopped raining weeks ago, but the gutters keep overflowing.
You were waiting at the edge of the block. I turned the corner, but never arrived.
Jan 2018 · 240
mirror neurons
Akemi Jan 2018
master motor bearing and the tap tap tap tap tap

end of century summer sweats the tablecloth mixed iridescent spill mixed rancid cream mixed spilt milk mixed mother’s breast

entry the market aisles the aircon slick with dripping fats processed flesh working meats gotcha thumb! gotcha thumb!

plasticide yanks the chain blights the debt fifty-five to the triumph ever closer

above the clatter you let it happen you take out your wallet you scan your loyalty card you take two plastic bags a great machine turns grinding everything to dust above the clatter individual sensations collapse into one cacophony one cluttered ******* oceanic spectre of death

we’ve been here before the flat words the repetition the living death the sickness desire

how far stretch the pennies down

myself myself myself myself myself myself my
A mirror neuron, or cubelli neuron, is a neuron that fires both when an animal acts and when the animal observes the same action performed by another.
Jan 2018 · 253
Akemi Jan 2018
catastrophic death of all meaning
semiotic structure picked
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