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stylesclash Mar 11
a body that acts the way broken English sounds; a body that is English
as a second language, writing you Shakespeare--when it wants to love
you--with a limited vocabulary; a multiple personality rhyme scheme,
where one ties a "not" together with a "knot", meaning both: you may
walk down an "aisle", although you will remain on said "isle" yourself;

a small tyrant on an island of one, you cannot relinquish your crown--
although you can supplement it, with a ring; an eye for an i, excluding
"i" in the ways "i" want to be seen most, because these are invisible;
a gluttonous ear that gains nothing, as if food for thought were
zero calorie; syllables that leave only silhouettes of their meaning:
the shadow of who i am defining me more, the more you shadow me

English as what exists outside of your brokenness; language that
does not languish, even when you must languish; genes misplacing
their syllables: if your jeans misplaced theirs, would you be panting,
like a dog, in the heat of the moment? a body that is always on fire

a house that burns only inside the walls, and collapses suddenly;
smoke that asphyxiates muscles, your fingers jittering for breath.
stylesclash Mar 10
emptiness that uses those closest to you as building blocks; fog
rolling in, inside you, like gentrification and renovating your home;
the present moment as a viewing, for you have already "cleaned
house" to present yourself; an empty you as the most attractive you

you as historic, only as a skeleton, for you have stood over but
cannot be understood; walls that don't have color, walls that don't
exist until painted by, say, a penumbra of white lies or "no vacancy"
blues; a full house, a houseful of memories spooned, like greens,
into an unwilling child's mouth; flotsam and jetsam blue-blacks

floating, like black eyes, in the silence that follows conversation;
walls that run into you in the daytime, disappearing at night;
isolation shapes, falling like a tetris of delete keys: dropping Ls
and squares and snakes left and right, T'ing up I's at your Q levels

when you come with more question marks, than a Riddler cosplay;
cosplay a conversation, yourself on the other side of your self:
walls that self-articulate, like a spider's web, from the subconscious;
a sense of frustration, when you can no longer find a way to be you.
stylesclash Mar 8
a Disney Land including all attractions, where satisfaction is
the only price of admission, for you may not enjoy your stay;
lines that are based on your circle of Hell: cheaters, invisible to
everyone and vice versa, riding in no time flat—just like real life;
behind them the corpulent, occupying two spaces, experiencing
time as multiplied by their weight, a minute as several hours;

hoarders, keeping too much, failing to keep to themselves;
confessions with the legs of Usain Bolt: finish lines of thought
that move opposite of you, forcing you to sweat out more secrets
to no "Father"--for now, like an orphan, Daddy is just the man
next to you, changing time and again; once you catch up, another
run on sentence running over your sense of self-restraint;

angry souls who cannot remove an ear implant that finds
their pain points; one, for instance, features Al Franken narrating
himself only groping your *******; his verbiage, as elegant

as epic, recalls a troubadour reciting Homer’s Iliad, lasting about
eight hours; looped infinitely, the hysteria here approximates
that driving his resignation; the cartoon anger of vigilante justice:
vigilante because, post-******* Clinton continued sitting as
president (or standing, depending on how he likes his *******).

amusement rides incorporating sin; a Small World where ego
grasps the size of the universe: one's sense of self overlayed
to its very edges; a sense of hollowness, always larger, upon exit;
a Toy Story for the ****** who, tallying high his rub register,
has funded a **** star's spank bank; her body digitized, he does

not see himself as purchasing prostitution; he inserts—filling
now his own spank bank—ever larger toys on himself, to which
his audience remarks, in support, “wow, what an *******”;
a Mad Tea Party where we, in our first world bougieness,
must drink the psychosis of our prisoners who play ballgames
with their own ****, and then pitch our own; for it is rather
****** that we place ourselves willfully in solitary confinement
and complain: we will never suffer as do the truly alone.

a Barnstormer, where gluttons are *****, like cattle, on-rack
in the commodification of their reproductive organs; machines
that milk their **** to the point of mastitis; slaughter as life:
all ground, ultimately, into SoyLent Green, to feed the others;
Monsters Ink for the new journalists, the Twitterati, who are
transfigured into the shade they’ve thrown; grotesque shadows,
their life-force is generated by bearing themselves to rejection—
what was visited upon others, now themselves—for, otherwise,
they must die slowly; Tomorrowland for procrastinators who

must mime, daily, the movements of Shia LaBeouf in a sunrise
to sunset Tai Chi class; they sleep only to discover, at wake,
they daydreamed about sleeping; delusional insomniacs—
awake eternal, they cannot bring themselves to “Just Do It”;
Under the Sea for rich and poor; underwater in unnecessary
debt, they thirst no matter how they quench themselves;
drinking only by drowning, they beg to choke on their desire.

Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade for politicians who put in
crosshairs everything except war; they must be murdered
collaterally—innocent as they are—for sport; a ******
shooting from his helicopter and laughing megaphonically:
for the fact that their lives do not matter should echo
as distinctly as it has in Mai Lai, where “**** Anything

That Moves” is an actual order; the women in their family
will be *****, the babies will have their heads smashed in
with the butts of rifles in a lust for body count; and then,
like Prometheus’ liver, they will be resurrected to live again.

a Shootin’ Arcade where those who cheered Trayvon's
death replace him: transported, they are homunculi:
adults in children form, they are shot for walking home
with a "parent"--and mistaken identity is irrelevant--
a dependent child, in this world, is so suspicious that
one may be snuffed-out for bearing only his likeness;
victory isn't less real when symbolic, than when real.

Goofy as the only mascot that you may take a picture with;
a mirror that, upon asking ‘who’s the fairest one of all?’,
turns you into an albino; gold diggers who are accompanied,
always, by dwarfs singing “heigh-**, heigh-**”; a Mini
Mouse, shrinking to inscrutability, when you want to log out;
you may want to leave—but pleasure and self-annihilation,
as in addiction, are the same; so you must destroy yourself.
stylesclash Feb 27
a palette of nightmares that you can paint a conversation with;
"space" containing space, space without oxygen; breathing room
that asphyxiates you; memory as crazy glue: adhesive, by nature,
only once too late, holding us together once we no longer do;
a ghost making a haunt of your mind, haunting you all the time;
ghost writing: new lines from the old you, delivered over seemingly
insignificant moments by my subconscious; wordplay as gunplay,

a videography of bullet points; the 14 million bits of information
per second conveying something only peripherally--our conscious'
bandwidth too narrow to grasp or censor--that becomes a "trigger"
once summoned by a scent, scene or spate of spatial recognition;
maybe, if you wake up with your bed on a different side of the room,
you will not remember; if you close the blinds; if the light stops
throwing itself like shade; if, like Marcel Proust, you never eat

a madeleine again. a weatherman beforecasting weather that was
inside you; a long thunderstorm that lightninged your rubber heart;
a windchill possible, only because you were blowing it; fresh air
that, like radio, "got you to work"; until, like radio, it went silent:

dead air. weather that bumps into you in braille; waiting, apparently,
for the day that you can feel again. Numbness deep-seated at
the wheel, "getting you to work"; emotions translated as anxiety,
as if the one word in a foreign language we know; and we, travelers
too blithe to learn. a taxidermied head of your worst future self

hanging on your wall, like a Talking Bass, powered by self-defeat:
so you can at least (or at last) defeat yourself; an obscenity of
similarities between us all; and we, nonetheless, **** each other.

"i should warn you that you may **** me;
but chances are, i'm gonna ******* over". - marliyn manson
stylesclash Feb 17
a suicide of your inner self, its religion slit, like a wrist,
and bleeding out through your wits; words that sound
the way dizziness feels, a listening party that weakens
you in the knees without any dancing; the future not
“dangling” in the balance, dancing as if tonight, music dies;
an ex lover returning one night, in their previous identity,
before becoming someone you don't know again

an inertia of emotions, swelling up in you like a cosmos
of impossibilities; dark matter as what does not matter,
nonetheless, weighing heaviest on you; souls as soles,
worn and never “brand new”, despite our claims, with
all the little things we step into; memories volunteering
themselves, willing you to humility, that you are unclean

the ghost of you in someone else’s footsteps, creaking
up the stairs, opening only the door to the past; addiction
as electrical storm automating your fingers, you reach
to obtain what shuts you down; a world of hooks:
we are hooked on, hooking up and on the hook with
no way to “come down”, unless we again get high

eye contact that pinballs itself, looking for a higher
score when you are not around; flashing lights
and Pavlovian sounds, a discotheque of the mind,
releasing small hits of dopamine; retinal gluttony,
we eat someone else with our eyes, McDonaldized
and fast food-ed, and instantly gratified with ****,
we see more arched backs in our imagination than
golden arches roadside in a morbidly obese country

such is what you can expect for the idea of fidelity
and that adultery takes place, first, in the heart;
whether we are addicted to narcotics or erotics,
fast food or fast news—for some of us horde (or
should i say *****?) information, as if “motor mouth”
were itself an ****** pleasure—we seem unaware
of our state. Orwell saw our undoing in a society
that is controlled by inflicting pain; it was Huxley
that predicted the mass infliction of pleasure.

in having what we want all the time, we are left
with little that we actually want; we dismiss,
even, our circle as if an unwanted notification.

the word “vanity” in Hebrew is “hebel”, meaning
“vapor”; it is our vanity that leaves us empty;
it not only chases the instant and temporary,
it is tempted by a world that pimps it for profit.
we are groomed to be consumers, so it follows
that we treat *** as an act of consumption

and not consummation; food as convenience,
or a gustatory experience, and not food; news
as a sitcom, where you don’t laugh at the show:
the makers of the show laugh at you—a satire
whose audience, in fact, takes the joke seriously—
feeding their hard earned “peanuts” to the Blue
and Red elephants of the circus, for they are one,
and those that think otherwise, bring to life
the ******* emblazoned on one party banner.

laughter that echoes back—returning from
the future—a whiplash of screams; contorting
your neck sideways enough, you must turn
your attention away from our comedy of errors;
our night, descending still as it does in winter,
mostly unnoticed, until it’s—literally—“too late”

constellations appearing in that night,
offering us guidance in their luminescence,
if we are not, even then, too taken with
our phones’ brightly lit screens to look up.
stylesclash Feb 16
moral advancement as fake news; although we have not fallen
from the smartphone to the landline or the PC to the typewriter,
we constantly fall back and forth between war and unwar,
prosperity and impoverishment, because the soul is not technology
and history is not a march toward human perfectibility; love as

fake news, for marriage—consummated as much on Facebook
as anywhere, which is to say, only virtually—fails at a coin toss;
life as fake news, for you may terminate yourself with the assent
of society in a way no different than when one puts down his dog,

once he is too much of a burden to care for; for you may
terminate a child with a "get out of jail" card, because ***
is a bored game we play and games, being just pretend,
are not supposed to get this real; give up $1,000, collect
your new iPhone and do not pass go, for communication

is fake news: we speak only in electronic smoke signals
and, reducing our character to 140 characters and consuming
TV characters that are shown at a different angle every 3.5 seconds,
our literacy of ourselves is too ADHD to know who we are

and, thus, we have nothing to say,

no matter the multitudes in which we say it; fake news as fake news,
for even the first newspaper in America, dating 1690, was printed by
the notable liar, Benjamin Harris; literacy as fake news, for the difference
between now and then is that, although we can read (and view), we cannot
suspend our belief in a way that sufficiently separates us from children,
who are ready to believe almost anything; it is no surprise our president

is a WWE Hall of Famer; not unlike a child watching pro wrestling,
we are Stone Cold over these personalities--pick your poison--for
if one permits that Trump is an idiot, he ignores this question:
how stupid must his opponent be, if she cannot outsmart him?
like John Cena fanboys, who wear his brightly colored merchandise
in support of their hero, they, at once, will jump up in defense

college as fake news, for this daycare for the adult-aged
takes already fragile egos and coddles them more; we teach
self-esteem and not critical thinking, censorship and not debate,
lest anyone be offended by your ideas; democracy as fake news,
for once the obstruction of the marketplace of ideas is an ideal,
we no longer have a democracy; good intentions as fake news,

for Adam is human nature, and the original sin we contract is
real, as Freud confirms in his idea of Thanatos and Eros:
we are governed by a force that drives us to annihilate,
first others and then ourselves, and this is only tempered,
often unsuccessfully, by a wisdom that says we know better;

myself as fake news, for the grotesque contradictions
apparent in Trump’s language are my own, and he is only
my id enfleshed; i am an image bought and sold, believed in
and unbelieved, curated, for instance, as being “straight
edge”, when i merely lack sobriety in other ways; some of

which, perhaps, are more self-destructive than yours.

some of which are too crude to say and, ignorant of them,
you can go on believing me; as Kennedy once flubbed his
line, “Ich bin ein Berliner”, i must likewise confirm my solidarity
with something i should mean not to: for i, also, am fake news.
stylesclash Jan 28
a highway built by tetris, standing on too
many Ls; writers' blocks nosediving, nose-
diving with you in tow, because it is "time";
history asphyxiating on the water of silence--
sinking in that silence--vomiting itself toward
the surface where it can be photographed;
a viewing experience: all histories drowning;

your image as "you", to be retinally caressed
and heard only with visual inputs; syllables
that cannot be turned off, even if you close
your eyes--because we are always turned on;
******* as the new religion: a trinity
between your image, *** and death; eternity
covered always by the stretched pixels of "now"

a distortion of your face as all clouds; snap-
chat filters for *******, pixelating commitment
and leaving your crotch bare, one-eye to bear;
pins and needles for an "i love you": vocabulary
that is no less ceremonial and meaningless,
now, than when one covers his heart for the flag

(just as a flag "unflied", one salutes taking a knee,
*******/off, awfully absent; without official leave).

a "selective hearing" analogue for humanity
when, for all of our touching, we can grasp butts
but not "buts"; blind hands search our braille,
missing the contradictions they are want for;

at best, for we will likely be censored, cut-off,
condemned, scorned, smeared, satirized . . .
beaten, persecuted, prosecuted and prostituted
or pimped out in the name of some "cause";
the future of conversation: a humiliation fetish,
for one cannot hold an opposing point of view.

we must be as one as low lifes with only
base aspirations; we must perspire spin-
spiration for our careers, beauty goals,
***** gains and the enumeration--literally--
of the self into the number "1". we seldom

allow a p1ace under our crooked h0use;
even in the age of participation trophies,
the distance between "1" and "2" is filled
with verbiage of how we love our vanity;
a 6 inverting with a 6 after a sext for a lick,
a 6 with an edge and handle for the stick
coming on the back end of the *******
after the back bending, i.e., back stabbing.

a recording of yourself that is heard only
when you don't think; the human shadow as
a commercial item you advertise to yourself:
new "twalking" feature, it re-charges you
as it twalks with you!, wow!; nudism

without flesh, so that we may be ****;
honesty as percolation and not an extraction
as, say, wisdom teeth or hostage rescue;
all the words we've been waiting to hear

suspended, without suspense, in silence;
only anticipation, for we already know.
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